CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(■Monographs) 


ICIUIH 

Coliection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  Inatituta  for  Hiatorieal  Microraproductiona  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  hiatoriquaa 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  totx  original 
copy  avaNable  for  fllnfiing.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibllographlcally  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


D 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I     I  Covers  damaged  / 


Couverture  endommagto 

□  Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  peillculte 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g^raphiques  en  couleur 

r^  Coloured  Ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
I — I   Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bieue  ou  noire) 

□  Cotoured  plates  and/or  illustrattons  / 
Planches  et/ou  Illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Reiid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Only  editton  available  / 
Seuie  Mitton  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  atong 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serrte  peut  causer  de 
i'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
intdrieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorattons  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  Use  peut  que  certalnes  pages 
blanches  ajoutdes  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais.  lorsque  cela  6tait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  6\6  filmtes. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires: 


D 
D 
D 


D 


D 


L'Instltut  a  microflimA  le  melHeur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
M  poeslble  de  se  procurer.  Les  dAalls  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sent  peut*Atre  unkjues  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ogrsphiique,  qui  peuvent  mocttfier  une  Image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modlflcatk)n  dans  la  mMto- 
de  normale  de  fllmage  sont  lndk|ute  ckJessous. 

I     I  CokMjrsd  pages/ Pages  de  couleur 

I I  Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag^es 


D 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  pelllcuMes 


r~y  Pages  discotoured.  stained  or  foxed  / 
i— 111  Pages  dteotortos,  tachetdes  ou  pkjutes 

I     I  Pages  detached/ Pages  d^tach^es 

I  )/\  Showthrough/ Transparence 

I     I  Quality  of  print  varies  / 


Quailtd  in^ie  ue  I'impresston 


Includes  supplementary  material  / 
— !  Ccmprend  du  materiel  suppi6mentaire 


n 


I  I  Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  enata  slips, 
' — '  tissues,  etc..  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  Image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
peiure.  etc..  ont  6t6  fiimtes  &  nouveau  de  fa^on  h 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

I  I  Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
< — '  discok)uratk)ns  are  filmed  twtee  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  dteolorations  sont 
film^es  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  Hwn  Is  flbiMd  at  tiM  raduetion  ratio  oitMkwl  b«iow  / 

Cs  doeumant  sat  Wm*  ou  tsux  ds  rMuetion  Indlqu*  d-dsssous. 


lOx 


14x 


18x 


12x 


lex 


20x 


22x 


7 


26x 


30x 


24x 


28x 


Th«  eopv  film«4  h«f«  Hm  bMn  raproduead  thanhs 
to  th«  9«n«re«itv  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplairt  film«  fut  raproduit  grtea  A  la 
ginAreait*  da: 

Bibliothiqua  nationala  du  Canada 


Ttta  imagaa  appaarinfi  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaaitola  conaMaring  tha  eondition  and  lagibility 
off  tha  original  copy  and  in  liaaping  with  tha 
fuming  eontraef  «pacif  icationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papar  covora  ara  fUmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covor  and  andlng  on 
tha  loat  paga  with  a  printad  or  iUuatratod  improa- 
aion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriato.  All 
othor  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tho 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion.  and  andlng  on  tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  Mhiatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  iaat  racordod  frama  on  aach  microficha 
•hall  contain  tha  symbol  -^>  (mMining  "CON- 
TINUiD").  or  tha  symbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"). 
whichavar  appliaa. 

Mapa.  plataa.  charts,  ate.  may  ba  filntad  at 
diffaram  raduction  ratioa.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
ontiroly  included  in  ona  aspoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  lafft  hand  eomor.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  «t«  roproduitas  avac  la 
plus  granc  soin.  eompta  tanu  da  la  condition  st 
da  la  nattat*  da  I'aaamplaira  film*,  at  an 
confformM  avac  laa  conditions  du  eontrat  da 
fUmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  eouvartura  sn 
papiar  aat  Imprim^a  sont  filmte  m*  eommancant 
par  la  promior  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
damiira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  lo  caa.  Tous  laa  autras  axampiairas 
originauK  sont  ffilmis  an  commancant  par  la 
pramMra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
dimprassion  ou  d'illuauation  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  damlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 

Un  daa  symboloa  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbols  -i»>  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
symbola  ▼  signifia  "FIN". 

Las  cartaa.  pianchai*.  tablaaux.  ate.  pauvant  Atra 
filmto  i  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diff«rants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  ast  trop  grand  pour  ttra 
raproduit  an  un  saui  ciich*.  il  ast  film*  i  partir 
da  I'angla  supAriaur  gaucha.  da  gaucha  k  droits. 
at  da  haut  an  bas.  tt  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  ndcassaira.  Las  diagrammas  suivants 
illuatrant  la  mOthoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

•••■oeofr  MKxunoN  tbt  cnart 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHA«T  No.  2) 


1.0  ^1^  m 


us 
Itt 
Itt 

u 


l.i 


IM 


IM 


1*0 


'•25  ■  1.4 


1.6 


The  Faith  of 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


The  Faith  of 
obert  Louis  Stevenson 


By 
John  Kelman,  Junr.,  M.A. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

FLEMING    H.    REVELL    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    CHICAGO    TORONTO 

1903 


!AV 

If 03 
/('eL  MAN,  J. 


4903 


4 


TO 

•THAT     WI8»     YOUTH* 

MT   OOLLIAOUK 

DR.    BALFOUR 


No  afciogy  ^  n»td$d  for  another  bo(A  eomMming  JMtri 
£oui$  atmmtm.  It  would  ht  impombl$  to  ham  too  rnu^  of 
him :  and  wkiU  kia/aUh  ha$  htm  touehod  wpon  in  paming  ty 
moot  of  thorn  who  hau  writttn  about  him,  it  ha*  novtr  pot 
h4tn  $dtettdfor  iptoial  and  d^Hod  ttudf.  But  a  large,  and 
for  th*  mo$t  part  a  vtry  tmtUwt,  l'*'^.  TUurt  ha$  for  th*  patt 
nint  fean  hton  gathering  round  hu  pereonaliiy  and  his  work, 
ao  that  the  diffieuUy  growt  evtr  greater  for  a  now  writor. 
How  much  map  be  taken  for  granted  t  Bow  much  muet  he 
eaeplaintd  t  It  mag  he  eaepeeted  that  eome  wiU  read  thi»  hook 
who  are  intimately  aefuainted  wUh  the  oubjeet,  and  othere  to 
whom  it  i$  almoet  wholly  unknown.  It  it  an  arduou*  taak 
that  liee  h^ore  him  who  would  offer  anything  of  ever,  the 
elighteet  value  to  both  theu  tiato't.  Yet  I  vonture  to  hop.^  that 
what  I  have  vnritten  may  tempt  eome  to  enter  one  of  the  richest 
and  moet  ddightful  regions  in  modom  English  literature,  and 
may  interest  other*  to  whom  that  region  is  already  fami>*ttr. 

I  have  to  thank  Mr.  Oraham  Balfour  for  .xis  lenerous  wut 
cordial  permission  to  make  use  of  his  Biography — a  permistion 
of  whieh  I  have  availed  m/yoAf  with  obvious  freedom.  To 
Miss  E.  Blantyre  Simpson,  for  her  '  Edinburgh  Days '  and 
for  other  help  given  with  her  characteristic  good-^oill,  I  am 
also  indebted ;  to  the  books  and  articles  of  Professors  Colvin, 
Raleigh,  Baildon,  and  Qenung ;  and  to  thou  of  Mr.  Oosse, 


VL 


in 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

Mr.  Cope  Comford,  and  Mr.  Chesterton,  hetidet  many  others. 
It  has  often  happened  that  paaaagea  uhieh  I  had  chosen  for 
qwtaiioH  turned  out  to  have  been  already  seieeted  by  one  or 
other  of  the  writers  named.     I  have  not  discarded  these 
passages  on  that  account;  but  in  no  i^istanee  (except  one  or  two 
whsre  the  debt  is  acknowledged)  hcve  I  quoted  from  Stevenson 
anything  which  I  had  not  found  for  myself  in  his  works. 
From  him  I  have  quoted  incessantly,  weaving  his  loords  together 
with  what  skiU  I  could  command,  that  I  might  thus  induce 
him  to  tell  his  own  tale.    Abundance  of  quotation  is  a  feature 
in  every  book  which  has  been  written  ahout  him,  and  no  one 
would  wish  that  this  were  otherwise.      But  the  excess  of 
quotation-marks  grew  alarming  as  (he  work  advanced.     I 
had  a  long  battU  with  inverted  commas,  as  the  printer  knows 
to  his  cost.     Fearing  to  irritate  even  the  most  forbearing 
reader,  I  drove  them  from  their  possession  of  many  words  and 
phrases,  and  allowed  them  to  remain  only  in  the  longer 
extracts.     The  incorporated  fragments  will  be  easUy  recog- 
nised by  all  lovers  of  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson;  and  if  any 
phrase  should  strike  the  uninitiated  as  mspieitnis,  I  would 
respectfuUy  invite  them  to  search  for  it  in  Stevenson's  books- 
it  wiil  be  a  most  profitable  exercise. 

My  claim  to  write  is  not  that  of  one  who  was  personally 
acquainted  with  SUvenson.  I  have  seen  him  in  Edinburgh, 
but  have  never  spoken  with  him.  There  is,  accordingly,  no 
reference  to  personal  and  private  facts  of  his  life  except  such 
as  are  already  pMie  property.  An  immense  number  of  his 
writings,  and  unusually  full  and  sympathetic  account'  of  his 
personality,  have  been  given  to  the  public  My  endeavour  has 
been  to  gather  from  these,  so  that  any  one  may  verify  or 


PBBFACE 

AumUfnmmy  <mteniion/ar  himelf.  (he  faith  v,hich  appears 
tomeman^e^andpncUm.    And  yet  I  cannot  aUaw  th^  J 

have /at  myulf  v>nitng  gtUte  a,  an  outeider.     Like  Mm  I 
,peni  the  Saturdays  of  my  boyJuiodanumg  the  MpeaiLeUh  : 

Iknmallab(mt^ld.plavnand2d.eohured':andltoobore 
alantematmybelt.     Then  menumes  alon€,  to  eay  nothing 
of  the  etvdeiU  days  in  the  old  Quadrangle,  are  emmgh  to 
establish  an  intimacy  of  some  sort.    'Et  ego  in  Arcadia  vixt.' 
But  ilure  is  a  stronger  claim  in  the  lovelbear  him  and  the 
great  debt  I  owe  him  for  help  of  tfu  most  vital  kind.    If 
gratitude  qualifies  a  man  for  «ieh  v>ork,  none  coM  be  better 
qaalifUd.     Indeed  it  has  qflen  been  necessary  to  restrain  ttu 
hook  frm.  becoming  a  mmotowms  panegyric-a   kind  of 
appreciation  u,hich  he  mxdd  have  despised,  and  a  kind  of 
book  which  has  less  than  no  value. 

What  I  have  tried  to  do  U  to  esiimaU  his  ihoughi  justly, 
and  to  passu  on,  that  its  quickening  message  may  go  still 
n^t  mdely  alrroad.     It  is  only  beginning  to  be  generally 
realised  thai  Stevenson  had  a  message  to  his  tunes  and  that 
his  faith  is  to   U   taken  serimsly.      I  have  felt   myself 
advocating   this    against  a  considerabU    body   of  common 
opinion,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  so  much  of  the  book 
is  written  in  his  own  words,  and  why  certain  sayings  of  his 
have  been  repeated  in  U  so  often.     It  is  with  whai  he  has 
said,  and  not  with  the  opinions  of  others  on  either  side,  that 

we  have  to  reckon. 

The  type  of  faith  which  his  own  words  declare  is  peculiarly 
valuable  in  the  present  time.  Tlure  is  around  us  much 
unconscious  ChristianUy.  There  are  strong  men  whom  Ood 
has  girded  though  they  have  not  known  Him,  and  quiet  mm 

xi 


K  •  ll 


\  1 


;■  ii 


1 
% 
I 


I'! 
si;:! 


'I 


THE    PAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

are  casHng  out  deviU.  Tkm  -^  ih»  rwn  who  wiU  hett 
appreeiaUSteveruon',  faith.  lU  uneommtionality,  iu /re,- 
dom  from  dogmaiic  expreuion,  and  the  inKparaiU  weaving  of 
it  into  the  warp  and  woo/o/hie  IW varioue oeHvitiee. muet 
appeal  to  many  who  have  found  themselves  out  of  sympathy 
with  the  external  forms  of  modern  ChristianUy,  though  in 
heart  they  have  remained  true  to  its  spirit. 

lonly  wish  that  the  task  1  have  attempted  had  been  done 
more  worthUy  of  him  for  love  of  whom  it  was  undertaken. 
£uide  the  rare  sparkle  of  his  wit,  and  the  swift  and  irre- 
VonttbU  flight  of  his  imagination,  any  systematic  analysis 
may  weU  seem  pedestrian.  It  comforts  one  to  rememier  that 
he  was  fond  of  walking  tours.  At  kast  I  may  claim  to  have 
drawn  him  into  much  brilliant  conversation  by  the  way,  and 
it  is  never  dull  when  Stevenson  is  speaking. 


JOHN  KELMAN. 


Edinburgh,  April  28, 1903. 


Xll 


i:i 


CONTENTS 


cnAf. 

L  RbUOIOH  AMD  THE  MaN, 

n.  SuBJiomnTY, 

nL  AOTOB  AND  PB1ACH«E, 

IV.  Thb  Child,     . 
V.  Thk  Man  ot  Books,     . 

VI.   RlVOW  AKD  OWOINAUIT,     • 

VII.  The  Girr  o»  Vision, 
Vin.  The  Qift  or  Vision  (eoii<tnt««d), 
IX.  The  Instinct  o»  Tkatel.    . 
X.  The  Instinct  or  Travel  {emUinved) 
XI.  Stmpatht  and  Apfbeciation, 
XII.  Manliness  and  Health, 

XIII.  The  *  Gbkat  Task  of  Happiness,'  . 

XIV.  Stevenson  and  his  Times,  . 
General  Index, 
Index  to  Refebences  and  Quotations  from  Stevenson's 

Wbitinos,  ..•■•• 


PAOB 
1 

18 
35 
51 
64 
93 
112 
128 
151 
161 
185 
213 
241 
268 
295 

301 


m 


I 


li: !  I 


■M 


i 


THE  FAITH  OF 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


II 


III 


CHAPTER   I 


BELIGION  AND  THE   MAN 

It  is  not  the  purpoae  of  this  volume  to  attempt  to  force 
words  or  actions  of  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  beyond  their 
real  significance,  or  to  clothe  him  with  religious  garments 
not  his  own.  A  large  collection  of  extracts  might  be  made, 
which,  if  taken  apart  from  his  other  work,  would  seem 
irreligious  enough.  Ac  the  sectarian  side  of  Scottish  church 
life,  and  at  the  conventional  respectabilities  of  some  common 
types  of  religion,  he  sneers  openly.  These,  of  course,  are 
but  local  matters,  but  the  question  becomes  more  serious 
when  he  tells  us  that  he  has  been  a  'youthful  atheist'; 
when  he  sees  behind  the  King  of  Apemama,  busy  at  his 
futile  devil-work,  'all  the  fathers  of  the  Church' ;  or  when  he 
makes  us  shudder  with  the  bitter  sarcasm  of  bis  fable  of  the 
yellow  paint  whidi  was  to  set  men  free  from  the  dangers 
of  life,  and  the  bondage  of  sin,  and  the  fear  of  death  for 
ever.  All  this,  and  much  else  more  pointed  still,  may 
strike  many  readers  ab  disconcerting  in  a  man  who  is  also 
the  friend  of  missionaries  and  the  humble  and  devout 
worshipper,  and  who  holds  that  all  freethinkers  '  are  much 
under  the  influence  of  superstition.'  Here,  certainly,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  avoid  the  preponderance  uf  single 
elements,  and  to  consider  the  wide  stretch  and  whole 
purpose  of  the  man.  It  must  be  again  confessed  that  at 
the  outset  this  task  seems  a  sufficiently  perplexing  one. 
The    numberless    apparent   incongruities   and    conflicting 

A  1 


IHl    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSOir 

•^wto  of  Sterenaon't  life  might  at  fint  light  tempt  one  to 
Uke  ft  cynicftl  view  of  the  sitofttioo,  end  to  coant  him  emong 
thoM  who  nnile  ftt  fkith.  Yet  no  one  who  knows  the  spirit 
of  his  work  oonld  vermenenUy  ecoept  that  easy  but  impos- 
«Me  eolation.  Even  after  ft  slight  ftoqoftintftnoe  the  religions 
element  is  apparent  and  farther  stndjr  serves  only  to  show 
it  more  deep  and  dear. 

The  expUnation  is,  after  all,  not  far  to  seek.    This  man 
both  by  constitution  and  by  experience,  was  so  complex 
a  personality  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  defining  him 
in  a  sentence  or  of  expressing  his  faith  in  any  set  of 
•rticlee.     There  are  always  many-and  especially  is  this 
the  case  in  an  age  strong  in  criticism-who  are  essentiaUy 
men  of  the  museum.    They  look  out  upon  the  world  as  a 
place  of  phenomena  demanding  to  be  catalogued.    To  get  a 
definition  of  a  new  man-to  find  a  pigecn-hole  for  him,  fit 
him  into  it  and  label  him-that  is  the  Juty  that  appeals 
first  to  their  consciences.    Either  he  is  Elias,  or  else  that 
prophet,  or  if  not  these.  Who  then  is  he?    Such  questioners 
have  foiigotten  that  life  is  greater  than  many  pigeon-holes 
and  that  every  soul  of  man  eludes  the  subtlest  definition' 
For  indeed  this  rage  for  defining  is  often  a  more  dangerous 
thmg  than  it  seems.     Apparently  the  desire  for  clearness 
and  logical  accuracy,  it  is  often  but  a  phase  of  that  deadly 
worship  of  antinomies  which  does  such  havoc  to  the  search 
after  truth.    If  a  man  is  not  thU  he  must  be  <Aa/ ;  and  it  is 
prearranged  that  if  he  be  this  I  may  approve  of  him  and 
admire  him,  while  if  he  be  that  I  am  in  duty  bound  to  hate 
and  frustrate  him.    It  never  occurs  to  the  inquirer  to  leave 
these  and  all  other  antinomies  alone,  and  ask  apart  from 
them,  What  manner  of  man  is  this  ?     Yet  surely  it  were 
^      .m  to  let  the  man  reveal  himself  in  his  own  right,  as 
he  IS,  apart  from  any  such  labels  and  divisions.     It  is  the 
method  of  synthesis  by  which  we  construct  about  us  a 


RILIOION   AND  THS   MAN 

world  of  liTing  koowleago,  m  contnwted  with  that  drewry 
uudytioAl  method  which  makes  our  world  but  a  collection 
of  olaaaified  tpedmena. 

All  this  appUea  with  special  force  to  such  a  character 
SOL  mind  as  Sterenson's.  So  complex  to  begin  with,  so 
vitally  changeful  in  his  moods,  so  catholic  in  his  appre- 
ciation of  apparent  opposites,  so  fkscinated  by  the  idea 
which  for  the  time  being  is  most  absorbing, — ^you  may 
define  him  (to  parody  the  words  of  Socrates)  if  yon  can 
catch  him.  Epithets  like  'Optimist'  or  'Pessimist'  are 
inspplicable  to  him,  and  fall  off  as  soon  as  they  are  con- 
sidered— how  much  more  the  epithets  of  religious  sect  or 
party !  He  felt  the  mystery  of  life.  He  trarelled  fast  in 
thought  and  in  sympathy  across  the  whole  field  of  human 
experience,  and  saw '  the  beauty  and  the  terror  of  the  world,' 
but  he  found  no  easy  formula  which  would  express  then  Nor 
did  he  demand  such  a  formula.    He  did  not  think  that 

'It's  stTADge  that  God  thonld  faih  to  frame 

The  yearth  and  lift  ue  hie, 
An'  clean  forget  to  explain  the  lanie 
To  a  gentleman  like  me.' 

The  mystery  of  things  remained  and  even  deepened : 

'  0, 1  wad  like  to  ken — to  the  beggar-wife  sayi  I — 
The  ib^aon  o'  the  caaie  an'  the  wherefore  o'  the  why, 
Wi'  mony  a^'ther  ridtUe  brings  the  tear  into  my  e'e. 
— It'$  gey  an'  ta$y  $pt%rin,',  says  the  beggar-wife  to  me.' 

In  a  memorable  passage  in  the  Inland  Voyage  he  tells  us 
that  'it  is  not  at  all  a  strong  thing  to  put  one's  reliance 
upon  logic ' ;  and  thirteen  years  later  he  speaks  of  himself 
and  the  poet  Fergusson  as  'bom  in  the  same  city;  both 
sickly,  both  pestered,  one  nearly  to  madness,  one  to  the 
madhouse,  with  a  damnatory  creed.'  Accordingly  we  find 
throughout  his  work  that  the  dintinguishing  mark  of  this 
most  dogmatic  of  men  is  the  absence  of  dogma  in  the 

3 


THl    FAITH    OF   B.   L.   STBTINSON 

thaologiod  Mi«e     The  faith  of  Bob«t  L<mi.  StoreMon 
oooM  never  be  expveised  in  any  formal  oieed. 

And  indeed  it  were  the  worrt  sort  of  foUy  to  demand 
thii  of  each  a  man.    To  present  to  him  the  Unnderbnae  of 
oon^omlty.  and  bid  him  .Und  and  deUrer.  we,,  an  attempt 
at  intdlectnal  highway  robbery.    Nor.  .nppoeing  him  to 
yield,  and  to  aUte  hia  convictions  in  formal  terms  to  the 
best  of  bis  ability,  would  we  have  gained  anything.    It  is 
a  transparent  fallacy  that  the  creed  a  man  may  And  it 
possible    to   formulate   will    exacUy   embody    his  real 
religious  thought  and  life.     'Almost  every  person'  says 
Stevenson,  'if  you  will  beUeve  himself,  holds  a  quite 
different  theory  of  life  from  the  one  on  which  he  is  patently 
^  Mting.'    In  estimating  the  position  of  many  men  of  our 
tira*-such  men  as  Oarlyle.  Matthew  Arnold,  and  certainly 
also  R  L.  Stevenson-it  may  be  taken  as  an  axiom  that 
they  will   invariably  understate   their   faith.     In   their 
formuUtions   there  will  always   be  expressed  less  than 
they  are    actually   working  from.     That   deeper,   inner 
inexpressible  faith  may  at  times  find  words  in  a  poem  or 
in  a  sudden  outburst  of  poetic  prose;  but  the  moment 
It  tries  for  exact  expression  ita  light  fails,  the  mysteiy 
clows  in    once    more,    and   words    ring   cheerless   and 
inadequate. 

We  shall  not,  therefore,  attempt  to  construct  any  creed 
for  Stevenson  out  of  words  of  his  that  bear  reference  to 
religious  doctrines.  The  uniting  principle  of  the  many 
elemento  of  his  thought  must  be  found  in  his  personality 
itself.  Yet  we  shall  retain  and  insist  upon  the  word 
religion,  '  Religion.'  by  etymology  and  by  common  usaire 
IS  the  connection  of  the  soul  of  man  with  God,  that  which 
bind$  the  finite  with  the  infinite  and  eternal.  The  bonds 
may  be  of  various  material.  There  ate  the  steel  chains  of 
dogma-great  bonds  which  have  knit  great  men  with  their 


BBLIOION   AND   THI  MAN 

ICtker  ia  rrwy  ffi-  Thww  u*  aIm  tl  i  llaxiU«  and  y«i 
•dODg  ootdi  of  MntinMnt;  and  thtn  ms  Umm  otlMr  oordi 
wUoh  wa  call  ehuMtor.  It  ia  at  nligion  undmlood  in  tha 
lattar  lantaa  that  wa  mnat  look  direotly  in  thia  atudy. 

The  BdMon  o^  Sentiment  is  a  term  easily  misnnder- 
itood.  It  may  be  confnaed  with  sentimentaliam,  and  for 
that  we  shall  look  in  vain  in  Sterenson.  Whaterer  else 
he  is, he  is  robust  ai^  healthy;  nor  would  it  be  easy  to 
find  a  writer  equaUy  vdnminous  and  imagiuatiye  in  whose 
works  so  little  of  the  sentimental  is  to  be  found.  He  himself 
has  condemned  it  with  the  word  '  splairging '— a  word  so 
expressive  as  to  justify  the  prophecy  that  no  Soot  who  had 
ever  used  it  would  dare  to  sentimentalise  again.  In  a  higher 
vein  than  the  sentimental  is  the  saying  of  David  Balfour 
in  Oatriom:  'Indeed  there  was  scarce  anything  that  more 
affected  me  than  thus  to  kneel  down  alone  with  her  before 
God  like  man  and  wife.'  Of  the  same  order  is  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  New  Tear  in  Kdinburgh  : '  For  at  this  season,  on 
the  threshold  of  another  year  of  calamity  and  stubborn  con- 
flict, men  feel  a  need  to  draw  closer  the  links  that  unite 
them;  they  reckon  the  number  of  their  friends,  like  allies 
before  a  war;  and  the  prayers  grow  longer  in  the  morning 
as  the  absent  are  recommended  by  name  into  God's  keeping.' 
Another  passage,  from  VaUima  Zetters,  may  be  classed  with 
these :  '  Did  you  see  a  man  who  wrote  the  Stiekit  Minister, 
and  dedicated  it  to  me,  in  words  that  brought  the  tears 
tc  my  eyes  every  time  I  looked  at  them — "where  about 
the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  whaups  are  crying.  ffi$ 
heart  remembers  how."    Ab,  by  GU>d,  it  does ! ' 

Such  quotations  might  be  multiplied,  but  there  is  no  need. 
In  a  still  higher  form  (though  this  is  far  more  delicate,  and 
hard  to  express  in  words)  the  religion  of  sentiment  appears 
in  that  ipirUuaiity  which  is  so  constant  a  quality  of  his 
work.    Hia  nickname  '  Sprite '  was  prophetic  of  more  than 

5 


•">/ ««1  i.  ««ly  with  aTZ.'    B^  *?^  ''  "" 

t«  much  to  ««„,  hi™!!    f  ••«»*««>  1  "d  it  i..„t 
f  «wm8  being.    No  doubt  some  caution 


BILIOION  AND  TBI  MAH 

if  iMtdtd  hw«.  ThaNaiMof  iiodbtlMiiiottpietafMqiMly 
qrmboUo  of  all  nvriu,  tad  it  oapAbl*  of  poatie  m  wtll  m 
litonil  isttrpitteUou.  Jonbert  has  wtU  Mid  that '  It  i»  wtC 
hard  to  know  Ood,  prorided  om  will  not  foroo  ooMolf  to7 
defiM  him.'  Probably  then  an  rnj  many  tbinkan  in  oar 
(ima  to  whom  these  wwda  appeal  strongly,  and  we  may  grant 
that  StoTenson  waa  one  of  them,  f  et  the  very  darkneaa  that 
ia  roand  aboat  Him  may  be  in  aueh  a  case  the  guarantee 
of  Hia  divinity.  If  praaaed  for  dafinitiona  StovenMn  would 
have  anawered  that  then  atill  an  aome  whoae  Ood  no 
houae  of  worda  that  r  .en  have  bnilded  oan  ooctain. 

It  ia  noteworthy  how  oooathutly  the  Divine  Name  kaepe 
recurring  in  hia  Utor  work— too  often  perhapa,  too  caaually 
and  lightly.  Yet  it  ahowa  how  familiar  thia  Uiought  waa  to 
him ;  and  if  one  teat  of  the  imligioua  man  be  that '  God  iaC 
not  in  all  hia  thoughU/  we  have  hen  a  good  certificate.  S 
If  then  (u<i  referencea  whoae  faith  ia  a  very  doubtful' 
qut^tity— '  God,  let  ua  aay,'— then  an  othen  when  the 
realiaatiott  ia  genuinely  deep  and  inatinotive.  When  he 
apeaka  of  Qod  aa  'the  master  of  our  pleaaurea  and  our 
paina,'  when  in  the  Samoan  troublea  he  pnya  God  hia  Foot- 
note  be  in  time  to  help,  aud  hopea  that  by  Hia  help  he  may 
aucceed,  he  is  evidently  meaning  what  he  aaya  in  ita  aimple 
acceptation.  The  aame  ia  aunly  true  alao  of  the  deacrip«  , 
tion  of  the  night  in  Yailima,  when  '  we  muat  ait  in  the 
dark,  the  wind  would  not  suffer  any  light,  and  ao  loud  waa 
the  roar  of  the  rain  and  the  beating  bougha  on  the  roof, 
that  we  muat  ait  in  ailence  alao  ...  in  auc''  houra  .  .  . 
there  ia  a  communion  impoasible  in  any  chapel  of  eaae, 
even  in  any  cathedrrl  You  an  alone  with  God :  with  one 
face  of  Him,  that  ia :  which  he  who  blinka,  blinka  at  hia 
peril'  And  then  ia  a  note  of  unmiatakable  reality  in 
the  words  he  apeaka  to  the  Siatera  of  Charity,  weeping 
quietly  aa  they  an  rowed  ahonwarda  to  Molokai  with  a 

7 


'ill 


!i    -M 


^  itiii 


X 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

company  of  leper.-.  Ladiea.  God  Himself  ia  here  to  «ve 
you  welcome.'  ^  ® 

Bat  though  the  Eeligion  of  Sentimeut  ia  thua  finely  und 
T^^  "f«»«°t«<^.  we  draw  nearer  to  the  inmoat  truth  of 
the  man  when  we  turn  to  the  Religion  of  ChanMjter.  In  two 
Of  h«  weirdeat  fablea  he  .hows  how  noble  action  excTb 

^rrT  °'''"'°"  '"*'•  ^"  '''^  ««»«»-'  "d  the 
m?rof  Tr  .T  '^'''  ^'  '"""'  '«»'«  '»>«  bewilder- 
irLlV  :      '"'*  '"  *"'  ''°*«  '*^  ^°«' '"'»»  "d  almost 

'Cfod,  if  this  were  fwth? 

•  •  . 

And  b«  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arue, 

^"'•:;'rth;.;'::''''' "'-  --'^  --  *  »^«  -* 

That  somehoir  the  right  is  the  right, 
liord,  if  that  ware  enough  ? ' 

I'vi^^.       ''■:  ""•  '"°°-"«'  "^  •  «-'  o-P'°«  ""^ 
«r..ce  to  humwrty;  u,  become  the  man  that  in  the  end 

he  l«e.m.  «.„,  to  me  .„  «>hievement  equally  <Ztl 

example  no !.»  elo,„enC    He  i.  well  awa^l  th^t^l" 

oZ"..ir»'',»":'"^""°  »'«n-«°»/b.t  faith™ 
olten  u  diffloult  for  him  a,  imagination  wa.  e.«  He  i, 
conl«,t  mth  .neh  .p^tWe  faith  a.  he  can  getTif  I  tarn 

of  .  fmct^on  of  the  amverae.  yet  perceive  in  my  own  destinl 
.ome  b«,k«,  endence.  of  a  plan,  and  «,me  LlTf  aY 
o«r.r^.ng  go.d„.„;  ,uu  I  then  he  „  mad  „  totom 
plain  that  aU  cannot  be  deciphe«d,    Shall  1  "  t  X" 


RBLIOION   AND    THE   MAN 

wonder,  with  infinite  and  gratefal  surprise,  that  in  so  vast 

a  scheme  I  seem  to  have  heen  able  to  read,  however  little, 

^and  that  little  was  encouraging  to  faith?'    In  the  last  of 

his  published  songs  he  reaches  a  calmer  and  more  assured 

point  still : 

'  So  Car  hare  I  bMn  led. 
Lord,  by  Thy  will: 
So  far  I  h»T«  followed,  Lord,  and  wondered  itilL 

I  hear  the  signal,  Lord — I  nnderstand 

The  night  at  Thy  command 

Comes.    I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  will  not  question  more.' 

The  transition  from  theory  to  practice  in  the  matter  of 
religious  faith  could  hardly  be  stated  more  explicitly  than 
in  his  address  to  the  Samoan  students :  'The  meaning  of 
religion  is  a  rule  of  life ;  it  is  an  obligation  to  do  well ;  if 
that  rule,  that  obligation,  is  not  seen,  your  thousand  texts 
will  be  to  you  like  the  thousand  lanterns  to  the  blind 
man.' 

This  leads  us  to  the  most  important  fact  of  all  in  con- 
nection with  Stevenson's  religious  thought,  for  it  turns  our 
attention  away  from  a  man's  formal  faith  to  his  whole  life 
of  character  and  personality.  It  is  in  this  that  we  must  see 
and  judge  of  his  religion — in  the  life,  in  which  a  faith  of  tho 
theoretical  sort  is  involved  and,  as  it  were,  understood, 
whether  it  have  found  fuller  or  less  full  doctrinal  con- 
sistency and  expression.  Of  Stevenson  this  is  truer  than 
of  almost  any  man  one  can  remember.  With  an  altogether 
exceptional  number  and  variety  of  interests,  he  combined  a 
vitality  which  flung  him  into  each  as  if  it  were  the  only 
one.  He  was  of  that  order  of  beings  which  'moveth  all 
together  if  it  move  at  all.'  His  work  was  so  much  himself 
for  the  time  being,  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  separate 
his  human  characteristics  from  his  religious  message.  He 
did  much  preaching,  but  it  is  his  whole  life,  his  thoughts  and 

9 


irn 


THE    FAITH    OP    B.    L.    STBTBNSON 

,^  deeds,  his  writings,  and  his  experiences-it  is  these  that  he 
gives  you  to  be  better  or  worse  for.    With  .  difference,  and 
yet  with  the  same  profound  truth,  his  words  about  the 
Rench  peasants  nuy  be  applied  to  hinuelf:  'It  is  not  a 
basketful  of  law-papers,  nor  the  hoofs  and  pistol-butts  of  a 
regiment  of  horse,  that  can  change  one  titUe  of  a  ploughman's 
thoughts.    Out-door  rustic  people  have  not  many  ideas,  but 
such  as  they  have  are  hardy  plants,  and  thrive  flourishinriy 
m  persecution.    One  who  has  grown  a  long  while  in  the 
sweat  of  laborious  noons,  and  under  the  stars  at  night  a 
frequenter  of  hiUs  and  forests,  an  old  honest  count^mln 
has  in  the  end  a  sense  of  communion  with  the  powers  of 
the  universe,  and  amicable  relations  towards  his  God 
His  reUgion  does  not  repose  upon  the  choice  of  logic;  itis 
the  poetiy  of  the  man's  experience,  the  phUosophy  of  the 
histoiy  of  his  Ufa'    So  with  Stevenson  there  is  no  separa- 
tion of  life  into  departments  of  secular  and  sacred.    He 
even  scorns  the  general  type  of  the  'novel  with  a  purpose,' 
in  which  'we  see  the  moral  forced  into  eveiy  hole  and 
comer  of  the  story,  or  thrown  externally  over  it  like  a 
carpet  over  a  railing.'     His  religion  was  as  wide  as  his 
V  human  life :  •  I  feel  every  day  as  if  reUgion  had  a  greater 
interest  for  me;  but  that  interest  is  still  centred  on  the 
little  rough-and-tumble  world  in  which  our  fortunes  are 
cast  for  the  moment    I  cannot  transfer  my  interests,  not 
even  my  religious  interests,  to  any  different  sphere ' 

Surely  this  is  in  itself  no  smaU  gain.  It  approaches  from 
the  other  end,  as  it  were,  that  ideal  of  Christian  men  in 
eveiy  age.  the  ideal  of  a  wholly  consecrated  life,  which  has 
V  ^?«f*l.°'  tormented  so  many  of  the  fathers.  Nav 
It  fulMs  Chnst's  own  demand  for  a  Ufe  in  which  saying 
and  doing  shall  not  be  held  apart-a  fatal  separation 
which  IS  at  the  root  of  all  hypocrisy.  Bat  at  this  stage 
It  IS  more  to  the  point  to  notice  that  the  identification  of 


RBLIOION   AND   THE   MAN 


life  and  religion  sets  for  us  the  ouly  possible  line  along 
which  a  stndj  of  Stevenson's  religion  may  proceed.  It  will 
be  absolutely  necessary  for  us  to  get  a  dear  view  of  the 
man  as  he  was,  and  that  will  be  our  only  necessity.  If 
we  can  construct  for  ourselves  the  image  of  his  manhood, 
from  the  physical  powers  and  characteristics  up  to  the 
inmost  spiritual  aspirations — we  shall  need  nothing  more. 
For  much  of  what  was  most  characteristically  himself  in 
Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  reveals  itself  sooner  or  later  into 
religious  form. 

The  successive  chapters  of  this  book,  then,  will  be 
devoted  to  the  study  of  the  man,  with  the  quest  of  religion 
for  a  more  or  less  subconscious  principle  of  guidance.  They 
will  not  be  coufiiicHl  to  any  one  class  of  his  books,  but  will 
look  across  the  whole  range  of  his  work  and  interest,  since 
no  part  of  that  can  be  excluded  where  the  message  and  the 
movement  of  life  are  one.  Nor  must  we  confine  our  atten- 
tion to  any  one  period  of  his  life.  There  seems  to  be  an 
impression  in  some  quarters  that  his  religion  was  a  late 
phase,  developed  almost  entirely  in  the  Samoan  years,  and 
cutting  him  off  entirely  from  the  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson 
of  early  days.  This,  we  take  it,  gives  a  quite  mistaken  idea 
whether  of  the  late  or  of  the  early  time.  In  Samoa  he  is 
indeed  mellowed  and  sometimes  pathetically  aged  before 
his  time;  yet  no  one  can  mistake  the  identity  even 
in  respect  of  the  Milder  and  more  freakish  characteristics. 
In  some  of  the  early  years  he  is  wild  enough,  no  doubt, 
and  often  to  all  appearance  daringly  and  rudely  irreligious ; 
yet,  as  may  be  easily  shown,  even  then  there  is  a  hidden 
life  very  different  from  the  exterior. 

It  is  quite  true  that  the  reb'gious  life  of  the  Samoan 
period  is  a  most  impressive  fact  Sometimes  indeed,  in  an 
hour  of  depression,  we  hear  a  cry  de  proftrndia  whose 
desolation  is  tragic.    Yet  in  spite  of  such  cries  these  years 

11 


{ 


\4 


THE    FAITH    OP    B.    L.    STEVBN80N 

are  jean  of  faith,  and  even  in  its  outward  expression  their 
aspect  is  conspicaonsly  religions.    He  attends  ohnroh.    It 
is  true  that  sometimes  it  is  for  the  love  he  bears  the  native 
preacher,  as  in  that  notable  service  in  the  Gilberts  when 
•  The  congregation  stirred  and  stretched ;  they  moaned,  th^ 
groaned  aloud;  they  yawned  upon  a  singing  note,  as  you 
may  sometimes  hear  a  dog  when  he  has  reached  the  tragic 
bitterest  of  boredom.'    Yet  he  tells  us  of  other  services  in 
which  he  found  refreshment  to  his  spirit ;  and  at  an  earlier 
period,  when  in  the  Adirondacka  he  first  discovered  the 
broadminded  and  manly  sermons  of  Bobertson  of  Brighton, 
he  could  not  find  words  to  express  his  appreciation.    Still 
more  impressive  is  the  famUy  worship  in  Vailima,  for  which 
he  wrote  prayers,  some  of  which  are  masterpieces  in  the 
literature  of  devotion.    But  the  climax  is  reached  when,  in 
his  account  of  a  Sunday  in  Samoa  written  to  Sidney  Colvin, 
the  words  occur  '  teaching  Sunday-school  (I  actually  do).' 
He  actually  did:  and  it  makes  one  remember  his  saying 
that  Dumaa  was  'no  district  visitor.'     Yet  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  was,  for  several  months,  a  Sunday-school  teacher 
in  Samoa. 

All  these  are,  no  doubt,  very  outward  and  conventional 
facts—inadequate  beneath  contempt  as  final  tests  of  a  man's 
religious  life.  Yet  it  is  just  their  conventionality  and 
outwardness  that  make  them  significant  in  the  biography 
of  so  extremely  unconventional  a  man.  Had  any  one  been 
asked  beforehand  as  to  what  form  a  religious  life  would  be 
likely  to  take  in  Ctevensou,  the  last  answer  that  would 
have  suggested  itself  would  have  been  enthusiasm  for 
foreign  missions  and  teaching  a  Sunday-school  class.  Yet 
so  it  was,  and  it  surely  counts  for  much. 

Hardly  less  surprising  are  the  records  of  family  worship, 
conducted  morning  and  evening  in  his  Vailima  household. 
The  low-bom  precentress  and  her  Samoan  hymn  with  five 
12 


BBLIOION   AND   THB   MAN 

venes  and  five  treble  chorueee;  the  interruptioM  of  un- 
sympethetio  animals  ftom  the  ourioMly  asaorted  Uve-stock 
of  the  eatate;  the  attendance  at  the  fuuctiona  of  'folk  of 
muy  famUies  and  nations';  all  this  might  seem  a  snfficientiy 
incongruous  and  fantastic  manner  of  religious  service.  Yet 
it  was  for  these  gatherings  that  he  wrote  the  prayers  which 
ue  now  happily  so  widely  known.  Of  them  nothing  more 
need  be  said  than  to  quote  two  of  them,  which  may  serve  as 
typical  of  all. 

PRAYER  FOR  SUNDAY 

(Uied  by  Rev.  Mr.  Clark*  m  part  of  the  barul-Mrrioa  ftt  the  g»Te  of 

Robert  Lonia  Stevenion) 
'We  beseech  Thee,  Lord,  to  behold  us  with  favour,  folk  of 
nuny  families  and  nations  gathered  together  in  the  peace  of 
this  roof,  weak  men  and  women  subsisting  under  the  covert 
.f  thy  patience.  Be  patient  still ;  suffer  us  yet  a  while  longer ; 
with  our  broken  purposes  of  good,  with  our  idle  endeavours 
against  evil,  suffer  us  a  while  longer  to  endure  and  (if  it  may 
be)  help  us  to  do  better.  Bless  to  us  our  extraordinary 
mercies ;  if  the  day  come  when  these  must  be  taken,  brace  us  to 
play  the  man  under  affliction.  Be  with  our  friends,  be  with 
ourselves.  Gk)  with  each  of  us  to  rest;  if  any  awake,  temper 
to  them  the  dark  hours  of  watching  j  and  when  the  day  returns, 
return  to  us,  our  sun  and  comforter,  and  call  us  up  with  morn- 
ing faces  and  with  morning  hearts— eager  to  labour— eager  to 
be  happy,  if  happiness  shall  be  our  portion— and  if  the  day  be 
marked  for  sorrow,  strong  to  endure  it. 

'We  thank  and  praise  Thee;  and  in  the  words  of  Him  to 
whom  this  day  is  sacred,  close  our  oblation.' 

FOR  FRIENDS 
•For  our  absent  loved  ones  we  implore  thy  loving  kindness. 
Keep  them  in  life,  keep  them  in  growing  honour;  and  for  us, 
grant  that  we  may  remain  worthy  of  their  love.  For  Christ's 
sake,  let  not  our  beloved  blush  for  us,  nor  we  for  them.  Orant 
lu  but  that,  and  grant  us  courage  to  endure  lesser  ills  unshaken, 
and  to  accept  death,  loss,  and  disappointment,  as  it  were  straws 
upon  the  tide  of  life.' 

IS 


I 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.   STEVENSON 

In  the  life  th^t  grew  to  80  rich  and  beaatifal  t  elcm  there 
WM  no  snpreme  criua  inch  u  thoM  which  oleeve  many 
live.  Munder  into  parte  whoUydietinct    There  was  nothing 
violent  or  audden  in  hi.  inner  experience,  though  there  were 
indeed  wme  point,  of  definite  cri«.  end  change.    Two  of 
thew,  oharacteriatically  unlike  the  ueual  record,  of  reUgiou. 
experience,  may  be  quoted  here.    The  first  i.  that  in  ^.hich 
the  'youthful  atheiet'  pawed  out  of  hi.  athei-m.  under  the 
influence  of  the  late  Profeswr  Fleeming  Jenkin.    He  had 
met  with  a  scepticiem  deeper  than  hi.  own,  a  distnut  of 
«oeptici.m  itwlf:  -Certainly  the  church  wa.  not  right 
Thnt  certainly  not  the  anti-church  either."  he  would  aiguU 
w  that  the  very  weapon,  of  the  fight  were  changed  to 
•word,   of  paper.'     The  other   passage  i.  an  extremely 
mtereeting  fragment  of  autobiography  which  occur,  in  the 
He^eetum  and  Bemarka  on  Biman  lAft,  many  of  which  are 
wntten  verjr  directly  from  experience:    'I  remember  a 
time  when  I  wa.  very  idle ;  and  lived  and  profited  by  that 
humour     I  have  no  idea  why  I  ceawd  to  be  so.  yet  I  Marce 
believe  I  have  the  power  to  return  to  it;  it  i.  a  change  of 
age.    I  made  consciously  a  thousand  Uttle  efforts,  but  the 
determination  from  which  these  arose  came  to  me  while  I 
slept  and  in  the  way  of  growth.    I  have  had  a  thousand 
.kirmishes  to  keep  myself  at  work  upon  particular  morn- 
ings, and  sometimes  the  affair  was  let;  but  of  that  great 
change  of  campaign,  which  decided  aU  this  part  of  my  life 
and  turned  me  from  one  whose  business  was  to  shirk  into' 
one  whoM  business  was  to  strive  and  per8evere,-it  seem, 
a.  though  aU  that  had  been  done  by  some  one  elM.    The  life 
of  GkHsthe  affected  me;  so  did  that  of  Balzac;  and  some 
very  noble  remarks  by  the  latter  in  a  pretty  bad  book,  the 
<7o««w  Bettt.    I  daresay  I  could  trace  some  other  influence, 
m  the  change.    All  I  mean  i..  I  was  never  conscious  of  a 
struggle,  nor  registered  a  vow,  nor  seemingly  had  anything 


RBLIOION  AND    THB    MAN 

penonal  to  do  with  tho  matter.  I  came  about  like  a  weU< 
handled  ship.  There  stood  at  the  wheel  that  unknown 
steersman  whom  we  call  Ood.'  Mr.  Graham  Balfour  quotes 
this  passage  and  says  that  there  were  several  periods  to 
which  it  might  equally  relate;  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say  which  of  these,  or  whether  any  of  them,  should  be 
singled  out  as  the  spiritual  turning-point  of  his  life.  Indeed, 
we  seem  to  be  warranted  in  holding  that  the  later  years 
were  not  so  much  the  beginning  of  religions  interest  as  the 
choice  of  religion  for  an  emphasis  which  it  had  not  had 
before.  It  had  been  often  so  neglected  or  abused  as  to 
become  a  mere  picturesque  background  for  the  more  iuyit- 
ing  but  less  creditable  play  of  immediate  pursuits.  Yet  it 
had  a  real  interest  for  him  at  every  stage,  and  had  been  a 
dormant  but  genuine  element  in  his  nature,  which  broke  out 
into  memorable  expression  at  unexpected  times.  When  it 
took  command  at  last,  it  was  indeed  marked  with  the  scars 
of  early  conflict  and  defeat,  but  it  was  no  new  thing;  it  had 
been  there  through  all.  It  is  quite  possible  that  some  of 
his  early  friends  saw  little  or  nothing  of  this,  and  that  from 
some  of  them  he  may  have  studiously  concealed  it.  Such 
reticence  is  characteristic  of  the  turbulent  period  in  all 
such  lives  as  his.  Yet  we  catch  glimpses  of  the  hidden 
life  in  many  passages,  of  which  the  following  extracts  may 
be  taken  as  typical  examples. 

With  the  days  of  childhood  we  shall  deal  in  a  later 
chapter.  Suffice  it  here  to  say  that,  susceptible  to  these 
influences  as  all  natural  childhood  is,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  record  of  nursery  days  more  wholly  saturated  with 
religious  thoughts  than  his.  The  influence  of  his  parents' 
faith  and  character,  and  the  tender  faithfulness  of  his  nurse's 
piety,  filled  his  earliest  years  with  holy  thoughts. 

In  the  wild  time  of  revolt,  about  1870,  we  have  this 
entry  in  his  diary :  '  Decline  of  religion :  I  take  to  the  New 

16 


R    - 1 
7 


I        ^1 


Il  ll  1 1 


'     I 


THl    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBYBNBOir 

TMtaiMiit:  dung,  itortliiig:  growing  dedn  for  tmfch: 
Bpenoer:  shoold  have  done  bettor  with  the  New  Teef 
About  1878  he  wrote  of  the  'unknown  steenown.' 
In  the  same  j9u  he  wrote  to  hie  father  from  Pari* :  •  Still 
I  beUere  in  myaelf  and  my  fellow-men  and  the  God  who 
w«de  U8  all  .  .  .  I  am  lonelj  and  sick  and  out  of  heart 
WeU.  I  etill  hope;  I  itill  believe;  I  still  «je  the  good  in  the 
moh.  and  cling  to  it.   It  i«  not  much,  perhape.  but  it  ie  always 
something^  .  .  .  There  is  a  fine  text  in  the  Bible.  I  don't 
know  where,  to  the  effect  that  all  things  work  together  for 
good  to  those  who  love  the  Lord.  ..  .  Strange  as  it  msy 
seem  to  you,  everything  has  been,  in  one  way  or  the  other 
bringing  me  a  litUe  nearer  to  what  I  think  you  would  like 
me  to  be.    lis  a  strange  world,  indeed,  but  there  is  a 
mamfest  God  for  those  who  care  to  look  for  him.' 

From  the  next  period,  that  of  his  California  life,  we  may 
choose  from  many  possible  quotations  the  verses  in  which 
he.  Uke  his  own  David  Balfour,  kneels  before  God  with  the 
woman  he  loves.  In  that  weU-known  song  of  praise  the 
closmg  Unes  of  the  verses  name  God  'the  great  artificer' 
•the  mighty  master,'  and  'the  august  father';  and  the 
whole  is  carefully  planned,  so  that  these  three  names  give 
the  key  to  the  entire  thought  of  each  verse. 


MY  WIFE 

'Trnstjr,  dn«ky,  Tivid,  true. 
With  eyea  of  gold  and  bnmble-dev. 
SteeUru*  and  bUde^tiaight, 
The  great  artificer 
Made  my  mate. 

Hononr,  anger,  Talour,  fire ; 
A  lore  that  life  could  never  tire, 
Death  quench  or  eril  stir, 
The  mightj  matter 
Gave  to  her. 


16 


I. Mi 


BBLIOION  AND   THl  MAN 

T«Mh«r,  taadw,  eomndt,  wife, 
A  faUow-fkrar  tru*  thioogh  lift, 
Hnrt-wlida  and  toaUfrM, 
Hi*  Migatk  fikUm 

GftTCtolM.' 

In  1883  he  writes  at  tbe  close  of  a  letter  to  Mr.  W.  E. 
Henley:— 

'Sannmootd*: 
Hmt*  shwtd : 
Hait'i  Inek. 
Art  Mid  Blae  Hmtco, 
April  and  Ood'iLwrlu. 
QrMn  reeda  and  tha  aky-aoattaring  rirar. 
A  atataly  mnaio. 
Entar  Qod  I  B.  L.  B. 

'Ay,  but  you  know,  until  a  man  can  write  that  " enter  Gtod," 
he  haa  made  no  art!  None  I  Come,  let  as  take  eounael 
together  and  make  aome  1 ' 

Two  years  later,  in  the  beginning  of  1886,  appeared 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  tbe  book  which  before  many 
months  gave  him  world-wide  celebrity  as  a  serious  writer. 

From  the  South  Sea  voyages  no  finer  example  could  be 
given  than  his  words  to  the  Sisters  of  Charity  already  quoted. 
And  this  has  brought  us  to  Samoan  days.  It  is  a  curious 
combination  of  extracts,  but  it  serves  at  least  to  prove  that 
the  religious  element  in  Stevenson  was  not  a  thing  of  late 
growth,  but  an  integral  part  and  vital  interest  of  his  life. 


I! 

lit 


'm 


17 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    8TETBNS0N 


CHAPTER    IJ 


II 


SUBJECTIVITY 

I*  it  be  granted  that  the  religion  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
is  to  be  sought,  not  so  much  in  any  fonnal  creed  as  in  his 
general  life  of  thought  and  action,  our  chief  task  muft 
evidently  be  that  of  considering  the  individuality  of  the 
man.    It  may  be  hopod  that  even  those  readers  who  had 
little  previous  acquainUnce  with  Stevenson's  work  had 
already  found  themselves  in  contact  with  a  very  distinct 
and  conspicuous  personality.    Such  he  was,  and  felt  himself 
to  be.    To  him  the  world  was  full  of  striking  phenomena, 
but  for  interest  none  of  them  all  was  comparable  with 
that  strange  being  who  was  impressed  by  them.    He  may 
have  learned  his  habit  of  writing  in  the  first  person  singular 
from  his  favourite  Montaigne;  but,  if  so,  it  must  have  been 
a  congenial  lesson,  a  permission  to  follow  his  bent  rather 
than  a  mere  fashion  of  style.    His  own  thoughts,  experi- 
ences, likes  and  dislikes;  the  things  he  saw  and  heard,  and 
felt  and  did;  his  memories,  his  impressions,  his  forecasts; 
even  his  personal  appearance  and  the  condition  of  his 
health  and  spirits;  these  were  to  him  matters  in  which 
he  was   frankly  and   strongly  interested.     Such  highly 
developed  self-consciousness  is  no  doubt  often  a  painful 
gift,  if  it  goes  with  a  nature  sensitive  to  criticism  and 
appreciation;  but  it  has  the  huge  advantage  of  providing 
a  field  of  keen  interest  near  home.    To  find  oneself  very 
interesting  is  to  guarantee  life  at  least  against  dulness. 

IB 


BUBJBOTIYITT 


And  thoagh  he  wm  indMd  Moaitive,  ytt  he  had  the  oom- 
pcnntiog  power  of  counting  hie  own  ezperienoee  in  with 
the  general  apectaole  of  the  world ;  of  sitting  off,  aa  it  were, 
and  Tiewing  the  aitoatiou  aa  a  fine  matter  for  reflection,  aa 
an  ezcuae  for  laughter  or  for  teaia. 

In  every  department  of  his  work  this  fact  appeara. 
Bomance  ia  uaually  objective,  though  there  is  no  apparent 
reason  why  objectivity  should  be  demanded  of  it  Tet  it 
is  unquestionable  that  thoae  of  his  romancM  are  the  moat 
successful  in  which  his  own  individuality  is  moat  preaent 
The  Made  Arrow  he  considered  a  failure,  and  a  considerable 
proportion  of  his  readers  have  agroed  with  the  verdict. 
Prinu  Otto,  in  spice  of  his  own  fondness  for  it,  the  delicacy 
of  its  character-work,  and  the  infinite  care  bestowed  upon 
its  style,  can  hardly  be  counted  a  success.  From  both  of 
these  he  is  conspicuously  absent  Of  them  it  may  be  said, 
88  Arnold  wrote  of  Bacine, '  The  talent  of  Racine  is  in  his 
works,  but  Racine  himself  is  not  there.'  They  are  perhapa 
the  orAj  books  of  his  which  you  feel  might  possibly  have 
been  written  by  some  one  else.  On  the  other  hand  the 
David  Balfour  novels,  in  which  he  seems  to  live  in  the 
personality  of  his  ancestor,  have  attained  a  success  which, 
if  we  discount  the  personal  element,  is  surprising — no 
donbt  a  bold  statement,  but  one  which  will  stand  considera- 
tion. The  tales  themselves  are  good,  but  that  which  is 
excellently  good  about  them  is  the  reader's  couverse  with 
the  teller.  Again,  while  many  of  the  Poemt  reveal  a  rare 
and  delicate  poetic  quality,  it  is  not  that  alone,  but  our  com- 
munion in  them  with  the  soul  of  the  poet,  which  is  the 
secret  of  their  altogether  unusual  appeal  to  the  heart  The 
Etaays  and  Letten  are  of  course  the  most  intimate  of  his 
self-revelations.  Regarding  the  latter,  one  able  and  friendly 
critic  wrote,  among  other  astonishing  things,  that  'these 
letters,  except  for  occasional  touches,  are  indistinguishable 

19 


-'ii 


ml 
r 


THB    FAITH    OV   R.    L.    BTIYBlfSOM 

fhm  th«  rnyrind*  of  ktton  which  an  exehugwl  brtwtni 
yoong  men  every  lUj  of  the  year.'  The  ooly  iutereet  of  • 
•Utement  noh  m  this  is  the  ptyohologicel  pniile  m  to 
how  it  ever  came  to  be  nude.  The  explenfttion  which 
•nggeeta  itself  ia.  that  the  critic  wm  on  the  outlook  for 
work  and  not  for  the  man.  Aa  finished  literature,  the 
letters  are  of  course  fragmentary  and  unsatisfying.  As 
brilliant  and  delightful  revelations  of  one  of  the  most 
fascinating  personalities  of  our  time,  they  are  beyond  praise. 
Again,  the  volume  entitled  In  the  South  Sea$  has  not  been 
received  with  at  all  the  amount  of  favour  which  its  author 
anticipated  for  it.  and  which  its  immense  store  of  informa- 
tion vividly  imparted  deserves.  Probably  the  reason  is 
that  which  Professor  Colvin  has  assigned— that  he  tiled 
to  make  it  too  impersonal  Consciously  or  unconsciously 
his  readers  had  learned  to  look  for  and  to  welcome  himself 
in  all  his  writings,  and  in  this  volume  they  are  kept  in  the 
outer  court  for  the  most  part— discussing  subjects  in  them- 
selves very  fascinating,  but  seldom  crossing  the  threshold 
and  conversiug  on  intimate  matters  with  their  friend. 

One  of  the  ways  iu  wliioh  he  impresses  himself  on  h*'M 
readers— coming  on  them  at  unawares  throughout  his  work 
— is  in  the  recurrenoe  of  favourite  figures  and  ideas,  which 
in  themselves  are  casual  and  of  little  intrinsic  value.  Just 
as  Jean  Valjean,  lying  on  the  night  of  his  great  temptation 
in  Father  Myriel's  chamber,  sees  continually  the  checked 
pattern  of  a  fellow-convict's  knit  cotton  suspender,  so 
certain  details  haunt  Stevenson.  The  idea  of  a  heavy 
piece  of  sculpture  left  upon  the  artist's  hands  or  travel- 
ling aimlessly  about  the  world  is  one  such  recurrence. 
Another  is  that  of  the  bather  lingering  stripped  upon  the 
water's  edge,  eager  to  take  the  plunge  and  yet  fearful.  A 
third  instance  is  that  of  the  cathedral,  which  does  meta- 
phorical service  in  so  many  of  his  books,  sometimes  with  a 
20 


!:3'     '• 


BUBJBOTIYITT 

earioM  imlerftaee.  Th«  iMin  intentt  of  thcM  uid  mftny 
oUmt  taek  aUosion*  is  that  A«  wm  intenstod.  Th«  imagw 
had  oaptivatod  hii  inagination.  and  we  feel  mora  intimatt 
with  him  eT«T]r  tima  we  meet  them. 

Thii  kind  of  intimaoj  reaches  its  keenest  in  the  snatches 
of  Terse  which  recur— snatches  which  have  evidently  canght 
his  ear  and  sang  themselves  into  his  heart  Sometimes  this 
happens  with  a  verse  which  occurs  bat  once.  Sailing,  for 
instanos,  in  the  Dangerous  Archipelago :'  As  I  lay  in  the 
cockpit  and  looked  upon  the  steersman,  I  wm  haunted  bj 
Emerson's  verses : 

"And  th«  km*  MMoaa  kll  Um  Bight 
Saili  Mtoakhcd  among  lUn." ' 

—lines  which  haunt  those  to  whom  he  has  repeated  them, 
and  recall  that  uight  near  Baraka  when '  the  heaven  was  a 
thing  to  wonder  at  for  stars,'  as  if  one  had  actually  seen 
him  there  in  the  starlit  ship.  Still  more  haunting  are  the 
verses  which  repeat  themselves  at  intervals  through  a  story 
or  a  play.  The  brown  old  aeaman  holds  us  like  the  Ancient 
Mariner  he  is,  with  the  unhallowed  spell  of  his  rhyme : 

'  FiftMn  man  on  the  Dead  Man'i  Cheat— 
Yo-ho-ho,  and  a  bottle  of  ram  ! ' 

Then  there  is  that  provokingly  unforgettable  lilt  of  Pew's : 

'  Time  for  ui  to  go, 
Time  for  ui  to  go, 
And  when  we  'd  clapped  the  .  ntchea  on 
Twaa  time  for  ua  to  go.' 

Above  all  others,  there  comes  back  to  us  the  memory  of 
Stevenson's  own  version  of  '  Wandering  Willie.'  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find  anywhere  a  more  intimate  and  poignant 
pathos  than  that  which  lies  in  the  lines : 

'  Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  moat  I  wander  ? ' 


and 


'  Home  waa  home  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  facea. 
Home  waa  home  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child.' 


m 


21 


1  jfi 

•'I 

11 
fl 


i'  ;-:'";ii  i 


i       i 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

We  meet  fragments  of  the  last-named  song  in  the  Master 
¥^lantrae,  The  Wrerker.Md  other  hooks.  Obviously  they 
haunt  and  strike  home  to  our  hearts  because  they  come 
from  the  depths  of  his  own  heart.  In  his  CrUical  KUeats 
Mr.  Gosse  tells  us  that  Walter  Pater,  to  guard  from  infection 
that  style  of  his  which  has  become  the  very  type  of  the 
elaborately  exquisite,  found  he  had  to  abstain  from  reading 
Stevenson.  Nothing  could  have  been  further  apart  than 
the  styles  as  such:  the  danger  must  have  been  in  the 
irresistible  personality. 

More  obvious,  though  hardly  less  appealing,  are  the 
personal  reminiscences  that  appear  everywhere  in  his  books 
A  quite  unusual  proportion  of  his  work  is  directly  and 
avowedly  autobiographical.    Many  of  the  essays  are  simply 
chapters  or  coUections  of  incidents  from  his  private  Ufe 
All  the  life  of  childhood,  boyhood,  student  days,  and  orow-" 
ing  manhood  is  there-his  life,  teld  by  an  artist,  yet  wi°thout 
glonfication   or  beUttling.     In    the  poems  we  naturally 
expect  the  same  thing,  and  we  find  it.    The  travel-books 
are  but  pages  from  his  own  experience  of  travel.    Even  the 
novels  have  sometimes  Eobert  Louis  Stevenson  rechrist- 
ened  for  their  hero;  or.  if  not.  they  have  him  for  chorus 
moralising  and  explaining  things.    Even  if  the  Letters  and 
the  Zt/ehad  never  been  published,  we  would  have  known 
him   and    his   friends,  and    when  we    read   these   later 
volumes  we  recognise  many  an  old  acquaintenca    There  are 
parts  of  John  Nicholson's  Misadventure  which  are  evidently 
memories,  exaggerated  but  unforgotten.     There  are  other 
parts  of  that,  and  of  many  another  writing  of  his.  which 
must  be  only  dimly  intelligible-if  indeed  they  are  even 
that-to  any  reader  who  has  not  been  a  boy  in  Edinburgh 
Did  any  other  town,  for  example,  use  the   classic  word 
Leene    of  its  lamplighters  ?    From  Hunter  Square  there 
went  forth  of  old  a  procession  of  nightly  illuminators,  with 


SUBJECTIVITY 


black  cloth  caps  and  white  linen  jackets,  and  little  tin 
lamps  swung  a-dangle  at  their  fingers  by  hooks  only  known 
to  daiiy-men  and  them.  Does  anybody  who  then  lived 
elsewhere  than  in  Edinburgh  quite  understand  the  inward- 
ness of: 

'  My  tea  is  nearly  ready,  and  the  k  n  bas  left  tiitt  rMi\ 
It's  time  to  take  the  vindow  to  »  ^  Leoiie  goiag  by 
For  erery  night  at  tea-time  and  b.  <bn  you  Ukr  yo*  ir  seat, 
With  lantern  and  with  ladder  he  co-  ft.  >^  ogMt);?  up  the  street '  t 

In  the  Family  of  Enginun — a  fragment  which  carries 
the  family  history  down  to  the  building  of  the  Bell  Bock 
Lighthouse — there  are  many  recognisable  traits.  It  is  here 
that  we  understand  what  gave  the  cue  to  the  inimitable 
description  of  domestic  economy  in  the  house  of  Weir  of 
Hermiston :  '  My  grandmother  remained  to  the  end  devout 
and  unambitious,  occupied  with  her  Bible,  her  children,  and 
her  house ;  easily  shocked,  and  associating  largely  with  a 
clique  of  godly  parasites.  .  .  .  The  cook  was  a  godly  woman, 
the  butcher  a  Christian  man,  and  the  table  suffered.' 
Nothing,  again,  is  more  characteristic  of  Stevenson  than 
the  frequent  introduction  of  trivial  incidents  or  everyday 
allusions,  evidently  reminiscences  of  his  own  life,  which 
few  writers  would  dare  to  use  in  so  naltf  a  fashion. 
Finally,  there  is  a  favourite  phrase  of  his,  which  every 
lover  of  his  work  will  recognise,  so  frequently  is  it 
repeated.  It  is  the  phrase  '  dying  daily,'  which  he  has 
borrowed  from  St.  Paul.  It  is  a  striking  combination  of 
words ;  but  that  which  made  it  so  familiar  to  him,  and  so 
ready  for  his  use,  was  its  tragic  aptness  as  a  description  of 
many  days  of  his  invalid  life. 

It  might  be  expected  that  a  man  so  conscious  of  him- 
self would  in  times  of  depression  let  his  subjectivity  sink 
into  morbidness.  In  the  last  days  of  crowding  anxieties 
and  broken  health  there  are  such  seasons  of  morbid  self- 

23 


\ 


:r--* 


\t 


.:li  i  ■ 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

examination  and  depression,  but  these  are  not  the  real 
man,  the  soul  of  him,  at  all.    Occasional  outbreaks  of  the 
OTerstrung  nerves,  they  may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  entirely 
discounted.    There  is  also  an  uneasy,  ill-conditioned  stage 
through  which  most  boys  pass  on  their  way  to  manhood— 
the  'troglodyte'  stage,  in  which  they  sulk  and  dwell  apart 
each  in  his  particular  cave.    How  dark  and  disagreeable 
was  the  cave  of  Stevenson  may  be  judged  from  certain 
of  the  personal  reminiscences  in  Memories  and  Portraits. 
•  The  interests  of  youth  are  rarely  frank ;   his  passions! 
like  Noah's  dove,  come  home  to  roost    The  fire,  the  sens!- 
bUity,  and  volume  of  his  own  nature,  that  is  all  that  he  has 
learned  to  recognise.    The  tumultuary  and  gray  tide  of 
life,  the  empire  of  routine,  the  unrejoicing  faces  of  his 
elders,  fill  him  with  contemptuous  surprise ;  there  also  he 
seems  to  walk  among  the  tombs  of  spirits;  and  it  is  only 
in  the  course  of  years,  and  after  much  rubbing  with  his 
fellow-men,  that  he  begins  by  glimpses  to  see  himself  from 
without,  and  his  fellows  from  within.'    And  again:  'The 
ground    of  all  youth's   suffering,  solitude,  hysterics,  and 
haunting  of  the  grave,  is  nothing  else  than  naked,  ignorant 
selfishness.    It  is  himself  that  he  sees  dead;  those  are  his 
virtues  that  are  forgotten ;  his  is  the  vague  epitaph.    Pity 
him  but  the  more,  if  pity  be  your  cue;  for  where  a  man  is 
all  pride,  vanity,  and  personal  aspiration,  he  goes  through 
fire  unshielded.    In  every  part   and   corner   of  our  life, 
to  lose  oneself  is  to  be  gainer;  to  foi^et  oneself  is  to  hi 
happy;  and  this  poor  laughable  and  tragic  fool  has  not 
yet  learned  the   rudiments.'     Through  such  a  stage  of 
unpleasant  and  aggressive  morbidness  Stevenson  passed  in 
his  young  Edinburgh  days.    The  Holy  Land  of  this  per- 
verse and  unlovely  worship  of  sorrow  is  the  grim  old 
Calton  Cemetery  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  nursed  the  mood 
and  at  the  same  time  watched  a  certain  overlooking  window 
24 


SUBJECTIVITY 


for  *he  vision  of  a  pretty  face.  The  Calton  Cemetery 
real  tears  ia  later  books — ^that  cemetery  '  by  some  strange 
cbaiice  immured  within  the  bulwarks  of  a  prison ;  standing, 
besides,  on  the  margin  of  a  cliff,  crowded  with  elderly  stone 
memorials,  and  green  with  turf  and  ivy.*  It  was,  however, 
but  a  phase,  this  youthful  melancholy.  His  life  passed 
out,  like  one  of  the  wakeful  nights  of  his  childhood,  from 
the  miserable  silence  and  fear  of  the  dark  into  the 
'wholesome  noises'  of  the  morning,  and  the  bright  stir 
of  day. 

A  less  tragic,  but  perhaps  more  objectionable,  form  of  his 
self-consciousness  is  that  of  affectation  and  egoism,  which 
appears  to  have  been  the  impression  he  made  on  all  his 
friends  at  one  period.  Miss  Simpson,  among  the  many 
vivid  pictures  of  her  Edinburgh  Days,  has  left  him  before 
our  eyes  in  a  drawing-room,  sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
that  he  might  attract  attention  to  himself.  Stevenson 
in  all  his  glory  was  certainly  not  arrayed  like  anybody 
else.  As  we  see  him  in  all  the  fantastic  absurdity  of  attire 
and  mannerism  which  he  cultivated  in  these  early  days, 
the  words  of  Milton's  chorus  ct>'     to  mind : 

'But  who  is  this?  whatti.  ^lorknd?  .  .  . 

That,  so  bedeck'd,  ornate,  i    ■   „..j, 
Comes  this  way  sailing.' 

Of  that  young  time  he  talis  a  story  at  his  own  expense. 
Salvini  had  visited  Edinburgh,  and  Stevenson  wrote  to  the 
Academy  a  notice  of  his  first  performance  of  Maduth. 
Fleeming  Jenkin  opened  the  paper,  read  so  far,  and  then 
flung  it  on  the  floor.  '  No,'  he  ciied, '  that  won't  do.  You 
were  thinking  of  yourself,  not  of  Salvini.'  Yet  the  article, 
as  one  reads  it  now  in  thr  Edinburgh  Edition,  certainly 
does  not  justify  that  c.  oism.  All  the  more  plainly 
do  we  read  between  the  lines,  and  note  the  egoism 
for  which  his  friend  was  on  the  outlook,  and  which  he 

85 


11 

■ii 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.     L.      STEVENSON 

fonnd.  For  in  those  days  he  must  be  king  of  his  world 
or  elae  a  conscious  and  wretched  tulnn-aut  Ctuar  ant 
nuUue: 

•  This  yna  the  world,  and  I  wu  king : 
For  me  the  bees  came  by  to  sing, 
For  me  the  swallows  flew,' 

Bat  then,  he  had  the  saving  grace  of  knowing  it  aU  the 
time.    Your  unconscious  egoist,  whose  vanity  is  so  serious 
a  business  that  he  does  not  know  how  vain  he  is-who 
hkes  to  be  the  centre  of  attention,  but  thinks  you  have  not 
noticed  that-he  is  indeed  in  a  bad  case.    It  is  not  so  with 
Stevenson.    At  an  early  age  he  left  off  keeping  diaries,  he 
^  te  Is  us, '  finding  them  a  school  of  posturing  and  melancholy 
Mlf-deception.'    WhUe  still  president  of  the  Speculative 
Society  at  college,  he  sums  himself  up  in  his  valedictory 
address:  'Mr.  Stevenson  engaged  in  explaining  to  the  other 
members  that  he  is  the  cleverest  person  of  his  age  and 
weight  between  this  and  California.'     Later  on  he  notes 
how  a  man  who  lives  apart  from  society  becomes  both 
weak  and  vain.    Prom  Vailinm  he  writes  to  his  American 
publisher:  'I  hope  my   own  little  introduction  [to  the 
Famxly  of  Engineers]  is  not  egoistic ;  or  rather,  I  do  not  care 
If  It  is.    To  Professor  Colvin  he  speaks  of '  Milton  and  I,'  and 
with  refreshing  impudence  he  writes  to  Mr.  Gosse-  'You 
know  what  a  wooden-hearted  curmudgeon  I  am  about  some 
contemporary  verse.  I  like  none  of  it  except  some  of  my  own. 
(I  look  back  on  that  sentence  with  pleasure;  it  comes  from 
an  honest  heart)'    In  yet  another  place  he  speaks  of  some- 
thing he  has  said  as  •  honest,  for  a  man  naturally  vain ' :  and 
there  is  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  David  Balfour  hears   in 
Catrtona  the  phiin  words :  '  Ve  '11  have  tae  supple  yer  back- 
bone, and  think  a  wee  pickle  less  o'  yer  dainty  self.'    A 
man  who  disarms  criticism  in  so  frank  a  fashion  takes  an 
almost  unfair  advantage  of  his  crin^.  and  pute  them  on 
26 


SUBJECTIVITY 


their  honow  ~   jentlemen  to  say  no  more  about  a  vanity 
80  openly  acknowledged. 

It  were  truer  to  say  that  he  is  more  deeply  interested  in 
himself  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time.  In  a  very 
remarkable  passage  of  his  Lay  Morah  he  describes '  man, 
a  creature  compact  of  wonders,  that,  after  centuries  of 
custom,  is  atill  wonderful  to  himself.'  He  describes  him  as 
if  he  were  some  natural  curiosity  found  unexpectedly  upon 
the  seashore— the  hair  on  him,  growing  like  grass;  the 
sight,  'which  conducts  him,  which  takes  notice  of  the 
farthest  stars,  which  is  miraculous  in  every  way,  and  a 
thing  defying  explanation  of  belief,  yet  which  is  '  lodged 
in  a  piece  of  jelly,  and  can  be  extinguished  with  a  touch ' ; 
his  savage  energies,  his  inconsistent  emotions  and  thoughts. 
Of  course  in  all  this  he  is  thinking  first  of  himself.  In 
Mr.  Barrie's  Sentimental  Tommy  he  recognises  himself 
beyond  the  intention  of  the  author,  and  asks  (propheti- 
cally) whether  he  is  to  be  hanged !  '  I  am  one  of  the  few 
people  in  the  world,'  he  tells  us, '  who  do  not  forget  their 
own  lives,'  and  the  words  have  a  deeper  significance  than 
merely  that  vivid  power  of  living  in  the  past,  whi.!i  has 
given  us  the  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.  He  did  not  forget  the 
value  of  his  own  life  any  more  than  he  forgot  the  facts  of  it. 
Loyalty  to  oneself,  treated  in  a  very  searching  and  sugges- 
tive manner,  forms  the  burden  of  lay  Morals.  Conversa- 
tion with  one's  own  soul  is  among  the  highest  of  human 
employments.  Thus  is  Stevenson  much  occupied  with 
himself.  Body  and  soul,  take  him  for  all  and  all,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  find  any  object  of  consideration  at  once  so 
intimately  known  and  so  vastly  impressive.  He  is  puzzled, 
shocked,  delighted,  and  repelled  by  himself,  and  full  of 
curiosity  about  himself  every  way. 

Nor  does  he  conceal,  or  in  any  way  desire  to  conceal,  this 
interest    On  the  QjMirary,  after  the  manner  of  the  shirt- 
*  ..  27 


-i 

i 

'7 

J 
1 

I! 

M 

! 

I      ■11 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STEVENSON 

sleeves  episode  idready  quoted,  he  often  makes  .  direct 

personal  allusion.  You  feel  that  he  somehow  likes  you-l 
hke.  you  well  enough,  at  least,  to  be  unable  to  let  you  alone 
aUf  the  pleasure  of  a  walk,  he  considers,  lies  in  sharing  one's 
sentimento  and  unpressions  with  another;  and  the  reader 

reading  a  book  so  much  as  meeting  with  a  friend.    This  is 

tTeVor/T'''T^-    '^^«^-idBa»'ourofC?«/nonai 
the  Robert  loms  Stevenson  of  Memorie,  and  PortraUs.    He 
ha.  the  sentimental  weaknesses  of  youth,  but  he  has  also 

tlT  T  '"T' "'  ''''  ''^^°«"  'o  ^^^"^  them 
with  the  reader.    He   discusses  himself  mo«  directly  in 

snch  writings  as  the  Essays  and  the  Poems.    That  is  the 

phrase-'discusses  himself '-as  the  most  interesting  .lee 

he  can  think  of.  to  himself,  and  no  doubt  to  you  also      ' 

Yet  there  is  nothing  offensive  in  all  this.    He  is  the  very 

whole   width   of   the   difference   between    'V  and   'we' 
Self-ceutred  persons  of  that  type  he  utterly  condemns'- 

L^Tlf  of  h  ""'  "'*''^"'  ''~"^^  «^«'  -"--  on?;  f 
silence  of  the  universe,  to  which  he  did  not  listen,  dwelling 
with  delight  on  the  sound  of  his  own  thoughts.'    nI  d^? 
he  wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  gairu  Js  talker  thoth 
he  may  be.    It  would  be  a  gross  mistake  te  imagine  That 

in  on77t't;  r'"""'  *°'  '^^  ^'«"^  •'PP--ted 
m  one  of  his  characters  a  reserved  and  old-fashioned 
precision  of  manner  as  'an  exceUent  thing  in  woman 
since  It  sets  another  value  on  her  sweet 'famililZ: 
He  believes,  with  his  own  Mackellar.  that  there  s 
no  distinction  'which  is  worth  a^„,  or.p^'ij; 


SUBJBCTIVITY 

at  the  slightest  cost  of  dignity ' — uot  even  the  distinction 
of  making  oneself  conspicaonsly  interesting  to  a  friend. 
He  never  makes  you  ashamed  or  uncomfortable  by  telling 
yea  more  than  you  feel  you  ought  to  have  heard.  In  this 
respect  almost  every  man  who  has  kept  a  diary  has  been  a 
greater  offender  against  reticence  than  he. 

This,  by  the  way,  raises  an  interesting  side-issue.  He 
has  often  been  compared  with  Scott,  by  injudicious  admirers 
and  others.  There  is  much  excuse  for  the  comparison,  for 
the  Letters  contain  many  passages  in  which  Scott  and  he 
are  coupled  by  himself.  His  nickname  for  Vailima  was 
'  Siibpriorsford ' — a  title  whose  very  humility  may  sound 
arrogant  Tet  surely  the  seeming  arrogance  of  the  colloca- 
^  tioa  is  abundantly  atoned  for  by  the  reverence  in  which  he 
always  held  the  Master,  and  the  unquestionable  fact  that 
they  had  certain  qualities  and  aims  in  common.  To  place 
him,  in  respect  of  general  greatness,  above  or  on  an  equality 
with  Sir  Walter,  is  the  most  unfriendly  kind  of  friendship. 
It  is  appreciation  run  into  fatuousness,  and  serves  no  other 
end  than  to  challenge  just  antagonism.  Yet  one  point,  it 
may  be  safely  asserted,  must  be  given  in  his  favour  in  the 
comparison.  Scott  is  objective  from  first  to  last— often 
boisterously  objective,  and  always  healthy.  But  subjec- 
tivity is  not  necessarily  morbid,  though  there  is  great 
danger  of  its  becoming  so.  Stevenson  has  solved  the  very 
diflacult  problem  of  Jiealthi/  subjectivity.  This  personal 
presence,  these  passing  notes  of  confession,  are  wayside 
wells  where  we  often  find  more  refreshment  than  in  all  the 
gloriously  objective  current  of  Scott's  far  broader  stream. 
This  is  oue  of  the  few  points  in  which  a  comparison  in 
favour  of  Stevenson  is  anything  but  absurd.  Yet  to  some 
of  us  this  is  so  great  a  matter,  that  if  condemned  to  choose 
between  them— say  as  tlie  one  author  for  the  traditional 
desert  island— there j|Hpiose  who  would  take  Itobert  Louis 


i 


II 

if 


IE 


11 


1.1 

hi 


THE   FAITH    OF   R.    L.    8THVBNS0N 

Stevewon.  Of  one  thing  at  least  there  can  be  no  question 
-It  IS  this  healthy  subjectivity  which  aoccunto  more  than 
any  other  quaUty  of  his  for  the  altogether  unusual  tribute 
of  personal  affection  which  he  has  gained  from  a  public  who 
know  him  only  in  his  books. 

And  he  is  worthy  of  it.    We  do  not  want  to  know  all 
about  -nost  people.    Nothing  could  be  more  unnecessary 
than   much    of   the   interview-Uterature    of   which    our 
magazines  are  so  full.     There  are  plenty  of  men  who 
have  come  before  the  public  with  work  which  is  inter- 
eating  and  valuable,  and  yet  have  awakened  no  further 
cunosity,  and  have  flung  no  spell  of  personal  affection 
over  their  readers.    But  of  the  man  who  has   written 
such  things  as  these  of  Stevenson's,  we  do  want  to  know 
The  things  are  too  significant,  too  important  and  suggestive 
m  some  cases  too  surprising,  to  be  accepted  as  the  ipse  dixit 
of  anybody.    And  then  the  glimpses  we  l.ave  of  him  reveal 
a  personaUty  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  have  too 
much  revelation.    Professor  Colvin's  Introduction  to  the 
Letters-one  of  the  most  masterly  essays  in  appreciation 
ever  wntten-bears  out  the  truth  of  this.     Mr   Barrie's 
words  bear  it  out:  'R  L  S.,  which  initials  are.  I  suppose, 
the  best  beloved  in  recent  literature ;  certainly  they  are  the 
sweetest  to  me.'     Mr.  Graham  Balfour  d.  jcribes  him  in 
one  phrase  which  could  hardly  be  made  more  perfect: 
i    So  lovable  and  so   briUiant.'    Besides,  he  is    so    fresh 
and  m  every  way  so  unusual,  that  the  veiy  surprises  of 
acquamtance  with  him  are  enough  to  enlist  and  keep  our 
cunoiity  by  the  mental  excitement  in  which  they  hold  us 
on  the  strain.    And  again,  the  character  is  so  complex  as  to 
tempt  us  by  its  variety  and  subtlety.     In  one  sense  his 
was  a  very  siisple  nature,  and  nothing  is  more  charac 
tenstic  than  the  unguarded  frankness  of  his  confidencea 
His  mmd  dwelt  among  a  few  ceaftal  persuasions,  though 


SUBJEOTIVITT 

his  interests  wandered  all  up  and  down  the  world.  Thus 
there  are  few  real  contradictions  or  inconsistencies  in  his 
work;  and  it  says  even  more  for  the  wealth  and  yitalitj  of 
his  nind  that  there  is  no  monotony  nor  sense  of  wearisome 
repetition,  though  there  are  things  which  he  tells  us  a 
hundred  times  over.  But  his  spirit  was  manifold  in  its 
movement,  and  his  heart  was  open  to  the  world.  From  the 
children  daneiit^;  on  the  wet  streets  of  Edinburgh  to  the 
South  Sea  beachcombers,  there  wao  something  akin  to  every 
man  in  him,  and  this  fact  alone  makes  him  one  to  whom 
mo8t  of  us  will  gladly  listen  when  he  chooses  to  be  com- 
municative about  himself. 

It  may  be  noted  in  passing  that  all  this  is  by  no  means 
so  remote  from  religion  as  it  may  appear.  A  strong  sense 
of  personal  identity  is  but  the  philosophical  counterpart 
to  what  the  religious  man  calls  a  sense  of  the  value  of  the 
soul.  In  such  an  essay  as  the  Lay  Morals  the  two  points  of 
view  are  combined,  and  one  hardly  knows  whether  one  is 
reading  a  treatise  on  the  Ego  or  a  sermon  upon  the  text: 
'  What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ? '  Religion, 
in  one  aspect  of  it,  is  self-denial ;  in  another  aspect  it  is 
self-assertion — the  realisation  of  the  infinite  worth  and 
preciousness  of  the  soul.  The  deadliest  doubt  of  all  is  the 
doubt  of  one's  own  value.  It  may  be  the  cynical  doubt 
which  questions  the  worth  of  life  and  things  in  general ;  or 
the  hypochondriac  fear  that  the  individual  soul  is  not  worth 
God's  while.  In  either  form  it  is  the  most  irreligious  of  all 
phases  of  thought;  and  he  who  has  entrenched  himself 
against  it  in  a  strong  sense  of  his  personal  importance,  has 
not  indeed  achieved  a  religion,  but  has  made  a  preparation 
without  which  no  religion  can  be  secure. 

Before  we  turn  from  this  subject  one  point  further  must 
be  considered,  viz.  the  strong  element  of  sense  and  the 
sensuous  in  all  his  thought,  even  the  most  spiritual.    By  a 

SI 


; 


THB   FAITH    OP    R.    L.    8TBVBN80N 

thooaMid  pMsing  hinto  and  toaohM  bii  work  diwdoM*  this. 
The  Homeric  directneu  and  vividness  of  physical  impres- 
sions is  everywhere.    A  bnokle  found  in  deep  water  calls 
» ,»  the  image  of  itr  drowned  wearer:  'the  very  foot  that 
had  once  worn  thai  bnokle.  and  trod  so  much  along  the 
swerving  decks — the  whole  haman  fact  of  him,  as  a  cieatare 
like  myself,  with  hair  and  blood  and  seeing  eyes.'   Delannay 
^  the  actor  so  modulates  his  voice  as  '  to  make  you  feel  the 
?  cold  night  air  and  the  moonlight'    JTu  Wneker  abounds 
in  such  passages;  as  its  description  of  the  man  steering 
the Norah  Creina  through  the  storm:  'as  the  seas  ranged 
up  behind  us,  black  and  imminent,  he  kept  casting  behind 
him  eyes  of  animal  swiftness,  and  drawing  in  his  neck 
between  his  shoulders,  like  a  man  dodging  a  blow.'    A  book 
still  nearer,  in  places,  to  the  crude  sensations  of  the  flesh  ia 
The  Mi$adventurea  of  John  NiehoUon.    Who  can  foiget  the 
physical  realism  of  the  description  of  his  despair  after  the 
scene  with  his  fatbtii  t__the  smell  of  horse-hair  on  the  chair 
at  which  he  knelt,  the  jangling  church-bells,  the  hard  floor 
that  bruised  his  knees,  and  the  salt  taste  of  tears  in  his 
mouth;  or  that  little  touch,  with  its  infinitude  of  dreary 
suggestion  of  the  hospitals  of  former  days,  when  he  prefers 
the  disgrace  of  imprisonment  to  death  '  in  the  gas-lit  wards 
of  an  infirmary.' 

Still  more  significant  are  the  sudden  descriptions  of  the 
body  itself  and  its  sensations.  The  'sharp  settle  of  the 
springs '  whUe  driving  swiftly  round  a  corner  of  the  road ; 
the  air  of  the  forest  that  'penetrates  through  your  clothes, 
and  nestles  to  your  living  body';  the  hunger  of  Eah^ro 
when  'the  water  sprang  in  his  mouth  with  a  sudden  desire 
of  meat';  the  chill  that  'deepened  and  struck  inwards' 
when  the  wanderer  returned  to  the  estranged  house- 
such  flashes  as  these  come  upon  us  continually.  And  there 
are  broader  and  more  deliberate  passages  which  plainly 
32 


BUBJIOTIVITT 

n?«al  hit  Musuoat  keeniMM.  The  lad,  itrippad  and  ready 
to  dive  among  the  horron  of  lunkeo  wieckage  in  Sandag 
Bay,  heaitatee  until  'the  itrong  aun  upon  my  ahouldera 
wanned  me  to  the  heart,  and  I  stooped  forward  and  plunged 
into  the  sea.'  Bah^ro  with  frowning  eyes  sees  and  judges 
the  woman  in  his  boat : 

'Broftd  of  ■hottldtr,  ampl*  of  girdlt,  long  b  the  tbi^ 
Deep  of  boiom  tho  wm,  and  htmwiij  supported  hia  eye.' 

That  these  are  the  expressions  of  deep-set  characteristic 
features  of  Stevenson,  and  not  merely  selected  examples  of 
his  general  power  of  description,  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
No  man  in  whom  the  physical  was  not  developed  to  the 
utmost  point  of  thrilling  sensitiveness  could  possibly  have 
writteu  OUdla — a  story  which  many  of  his  admirers  place 
at  the  highest  level  of  his  work.  There,  in  a  horror  not 
secoud  even  to  that  of  Ibsen's  Ohotts,  the  tragedy  of  heredity, 
and  the  degeneration  of  human  nature  to  that  of  the 
wild  beast,  are  depicted  with  most  terrible  convincingness. 
The  inhuman  element  which  lurks  within  the  loveliness  of 
OUdla  like  a  suspicion,  and  breaks  out  in  her  mother  and 
her  brother  into  terrific  savagery,  is  animalism  depicted  by 
one  who  knows.  That  story  recalls  the  remarkable  words 
of  Mr.  Graham  Balfour  describing  Stevenson :  '  In  all  his 
movements  he  was  most  graceful:  every  gesture  was  full 
of  an  unconscious  beauty,  and  his  restless  and  supple  gait 
has  been  well  compared  to  the  pacing  to  and  fro  of  a  wild 
forest  animal'  There  are  times  when  this  faunlike,  hardly 
human  element  is  suddenly  revealed.  In  such  times  the 
interplay  of  flesh  and  spirit  produces  an  effect  of  strange* 
ness  which  for  the  moment  shatters  our  sor^e  of  intimacy 
with  him.  At  all  times  he  is  a  spirit  very  deeply  embodied 
in  flesh.  His  senses  are  strong  within  him  Pud  their  impres- 
sions are  intense. 

0  ss 


THl    FAITH    OF    B.    L.   8T1VIN80M 

In  tW.  cl««ct«ri.tio  faol  w  find  .  guiding  principle  for 
<mr  .tndj.  H«  i..  «.  wa  1»t«  mid. .  nun  of  dear  and  loftj 
•pintudity.  but  it  i.  •  .piritudity  .Iway.  w.ch«i  through 
Mwe^  In  under.t«ding  hia  th«  progrw.  must  b«  con- 
tinwlly  r«pe.t«i  from  mum  to  .pirit  Neither  element 
c«.  be  contider^i  without  reference  to  the  other.  In  the 
fleeh  M  he  depicte  it,  you  conet^Uy  diwern  the  ipirit 
bredcmg  through  J  iu  the  .pirft.  you  neem  .tiU  .w«;  of 
the  r^  Unge  of  fleeh.    Each  of  hi.  epiritual  truth.  hM  it. 

evc7  bit  of  phy.,c.l  work  run.  up  into  .piritnd  .uggeeUon 
.nd  .ymboh.m.  How  fr-reaching  and  deep  a  pTciple 
thu  U  for  the  cntio  and  appreciator  of  Stevenwn.  we  .hall 
liave  abundant  opportunity  of  noting  in  later  page.. 


S4 


ACTOR   AND   PRBAOHER 


CHAPTER    III 


n 


ACrOR   AND   PREACHER 

I.  Actor 

Our  main  purpose  is,  u  we  have  said,  to  follow  out  the 
▼srioas  developments  of  Stevenson's  nature,  woricing  out- 
ward from  physical  to  spiritual.    But  there  are  some  other 
matters  which  must  first  be  considered.    One  of  the  most 
important  of  these  emerges  directly  out  of  that  interest  in 
himself  which  we  have  found  to  be  so  strongly  marked  a 
feature  of  his  character.    It  is  obvious  that  a  personality  at 
once  so  vivid  and  so  interesting  to  himself  and  others  might 
easily  run  off  into  acting,  and  this  is  a  view  which  has  been 
taken   by  some  critics.      It  has,  not   unnaturally,  been 
supposed  that  he  did  his  writing  and  even  his  thinking,  for 
effect  and  with  an  eye  on  the  audience.     In  regard  to 
religion  this  becomes  a  serious  accusation.    If  the  religious 
side  of  Stevenson  should  turn  out  to  be  mere  posturing, 
and  not  in  any  sense  a  part  of  his  real  self,  then  the  less 
said  or  written  about  it  the  better.     And,  in  fact,  this 
charge  demands  all  the  more  serious  examination  because 
there  was  one  side  of  his  character,  which  it  is  very  easy 
80  to  misunderstand  and  exaggerate,  as  to  leave  the  whole 
religious  life  and  work  valueless  because  unreal.    Of  his 
prayers  in  Vailima  we  have  already  written,  of  his  inter- 
course with  missionaries  and  their  work  we  shall  write  in 
a  future  page.    No  doubt  such  situations  offered  him  a 

8» 


m 


m 


*  .    ! 


\m 


THE    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    STBYBNSOM 

picturesque  attitude,  raoh  as  he  dearly  loved  from  first  to 
last.  Yet,  though  they  may  reveal  the  complexity  of  his 
nature  and  his  love  of  picturesqueness  in  aU  things,  they 
bear  the  very  haU-mark  of  sincerity  upon  them. 

But  before  we  come  to  these  more  serious  questions,  let 
us  glance  at  the  theatrical  element  in  his  general  taste 
and  disposition.     That  there  was  such  an  element  need 
not  be  denied.    Nothing  is  more  evident  than  the  frequent 
comwiousness.  the   delight   in   the  spectacuUr,  and  the 
deliberate  search  for  the  e£fectiva    It  might  be  said  with, 
out  fear  of  contradiction  that  all  his  books  were  conceived 
by  him  more  or  less  as  theatres,  and  that  aU  his  characten 
real  and  fictitious  aUke,  appear  before  the  footlights.    The 
Master  of  Ballantrae  will  leave  his  relatives  alone  if  they 
will  beg  him  to  do  it  on  their  bended  knees-' he  thinks  in 
pubUc,  too  1 '    His  Japanese  hero  of  real  life  has  a  presents, 
tion  sword  three  feet  long,  and  too  heavy  for  him  to  wear 
without  distress,  yet  he  would  always  gird  it  on  when 
he  went  to  dig  in  his  garden.    Similarly  his  own  surround, 
ings  are  a  stage  and  he  the  player.    He  loves  romantic 
and  picturesque  situations.    He  cannot  help  striking  an 
attitude  upon  aU  possible  occasions.    He  is  self.comMjiou8 
in  the  midst  of  all  his  eneigies,  aware  of  himself  and 
seldom  forgetful  of  his  appearance. 

His  style  abounds  with  metaphors  drawn  from  the  stage 
concerning  scenes,  acts,  players.  U  hoc  genus  amne.  He  con- 
stantly makes  allusiomi  figuratively  or  literally  drawn  from 
the  same  source.  In  one  of  the  coUege  papers  he  chuckles 
over  the  medical  student  of  1834  who  'wore  a  white 
waistcoat  and  consequentiy  talked  loud.'  He  teUs  of  a 
Marquesan  chief  that '  he  wore  gravity  like  an  ornament ' : 
and  of  King  Tembinok  he  goes  into  great  detaU  to  show 
how  weU  Nature  had  equipped  him  for  the  profession  of 
an  actor.  •  You  wiU  never  change ;  and  the  words  of  your 
56 


ACTOR   AND    PREACHER 

put  on  this  stage  are  irrevocably  written  down/  says  the 
mysterious  visitor  to  Markheim.  Doctor  Desprez  'was  a 
connoisseur  of  sunrises,  and  loved  a  good  theatrical  effect  to 
usher  in  the  day.'  Even  when  he  himself  was  on  board  a 
burning  ship  off  Auckland,  the  main  cabin,  incarnadined 
with  the  glow  of  fire,  reminded  him  of  the  last  scene  of  a 
pantomime. 

His  fondness  for  the  stage  was  so  great  as  to  give  credi- 
bility to  the  story  that  on  the  Continent  he  once  joined 
a  company  of  strolling  players  and  acted  with  them.    An 
opera,  he  writes  to  his  mother,  is  far  more  real  than  real 
life  to  him.    A  toy  theatre  was  among  the  chief  delights  of 
his  childhood,  and  the  favourite  recreation  of  his  student 
days  was  acting  in  Fleeming  Jenkin's  theatricals.    He  is 
said  to  have  been  but  a  poor  actor,  yet  his  critique  of 
Salvini'sifocJrfA  is  an  excellent  piece  of  dramatic  sympathy 
and  understanding.    In  the  plays  which  he  wrote  in  col- 
laboration  with  Mr.  Henley  we  perceive  a  workman  who 
thoroughly  enjoys  his  work.     He  throws  about  his  stage 
directions  ('aside,'  'business,'  etc.)  with  an  amusing  appre- 
ciation of  their  technicality.    It  is  true  that  he  does  not 
take  them  quite  seriously,  but  sometimes  lets  the  fun  of  the 
thing  carry  him  off.   '  Gtoriot,'  says  Macaire, '  noble  old  man, 
I  grasp  your  hand';  but  the  astonishing  stage  direction  is 
—'(he  doesn't)' \     In  fact  the  plays  hardly  appeal  to  the 
reader  as  plays  at  all,  but  as  racy  bits  of  novel-writing 
which  sometimes  gain,  but  more  frequently  suffer,  from 
having  been  put  in  dramatic  form.    But  in  the  Treamre  of 
Franehard  and  the  Ifew  Arabian  NighU  we  see  the  true 
actor's  instinct    In  the  former  the  character  of  Dr.  Desprez 
allows  the  author  to  get  upon  the  stage  and  perform  comedy 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.   Desprez  reminds  one  of  that  strange 
creation  of  Meredith's,  the  father  of  Harry  Richmond.    A 
combination  of  egoist,  mountebank,  and  little  child,  he  is 

S7 


..} 


THE    FAITH    OP   R.    L.    STEVENSON 

exoeUenUy  well  oonoeived  and  firmly  executed.  The  same 
thing  is  true  of  Prince  FloriMl  in  the  New  Arabian  Night, 
To  many  leadets  he  is  the  veiy  type  of  fantastic  imagination 
in  which  the  theatrical  has  run  to  wearisomeness;  and  yet 
it  is  evident  that  the  Prince  represents  an  actual  side,  and 
that  no  small  one,  of  Stevenson's  genius. 

Such  being  his  bent,  it  would  have  been  strange  indeed 
if  there  had  not  been  a  certain  theatrical  element  in  his 
thought  and  life.    It  was,  indeed,  in  his  blood.    His  grand- 
father  had  it,  though  under  restraint    It  was  he  who  laid 
out  the  eastern  approaches  to  Edinburgh  in  such  fashion  as 
to  make  Cockbum  write  that  'the  eflFect  was  like  drawing 
up  the  curtain  of  a  theatre.'    That  same  grandfather  estab- 
1''  led  patriarchal  relations  with  the  servants  of  the  Northern 
Lights,  which  reappear  in  the  feudal  establishment  of  the 
grandson  in  Samoa.    His  father's  childhood  had  adventures 
which  show  that  he  too  had  the  actor  in  him.    Masquerad- 
mg  in  a  piece  of  iron  chimney-pot  for  helmet,  or  labeUing 
Uttle  parcels  of  ashes  'Gold  dust,  with  care,'  and  leaving 
them  in  quiet  streets,  we  find  him  the  authentic  father  of 
his  child,  who  nearly  died  because,  in  the  character  of  ship- 
wrecked  saUor,  he  had  eaten  buttercups  in  dangerous  quan- 
titles.    '  Pretending'  was  the  favourite  amusement  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  boyhood,  and  it  remained  a  favourite 
amusement  to  the  last    It  was  his  mother's  secret  also,  and 
It  stood  them  both  in  good  stead.    '  We  agree  to  look  upon 
It  as  an  adventure,'  is  her  magic  spell  for  all  manner 
of  unpleasant  situations;  and  no  one  can  tell  how  much 
that  one  trick  did  for  him  through  life.    His  freakishness 
and  his  susceptibUity  to  the  charms  of  the  unusual,  made' 
him  something  of  an  impression-hunter.     Dke  Disraeli's 
Vavasour, '  His  life  was  a  gyration  of  energetic  curiosity. . . . 
He  was  everywhere,  and  at  everything;  he  bad  gone  down 
m  a  dmng-bell  and  gone  up  in  a  balloon.'    At  least  he 
38 


ACTOR   AND    PREACHER 


bad  gone  down  in  a  diver's  dress,  and  if  there  is  no  record 
of  an  ascent  performed  in  his  own  person,  he  sent  his  hero 
up  in  a  balloon  at  the  close  of  St.  Ives.  From  Saranac  he 
jokes  with  Mr.  W.  H.  Low  about  getting  himself  painted 
in  a  bufiFalo  robe  and  l^gings  as  a  wild  man  of  the  woods. 
In  Samoa  he  is  photographed  standing  side  by  side  with 
the  native  chief  Tni  Malealiifano.  Altogether  he  does  a 
great  deal  of  attitudinising,  and  seems  constantly  aware  of 
a  cloud  of  witnesses.  Even  when  he  himself  has  to  stand 
for  witness,  in  default  of  other  audience,  the  play  goes  on. 
Becovering  from  illness  in  Mentone  he  writes, '  I  bum  two 
candles  every  night  now ;  for  long,  I  never  lit  but  one.'  In 
the  Cevennes  journey,  waking  after  a  night's  sleep  in  the 
open  air,  he  is  in  high  spirits,  and  views  the  green  earth  in 
the  light  of  the  best  of  inns :  '  I  had  been  most  hospitably 
received,  and  punctually  served  in  my  green  caravanserai. 
The  room  was  airy,  the  water  excellent,  and  the  dawn  had 
called  me  to  a  moment.  I  say  nothing  of  the  tapestries,  or 
the  inimitable  ceiling,  nor  yet  the  view  which  I  conunanded 
from  the  Mrindows ;  but  I  felt  I  was  in  some  one's  debt  for 
all  this  liberal  entertainment  And  so  it  pleased  me,  in 
a  half-laughing  way,  to  leave  pieces  of  money  on  the  turf 
as  I  went  along,  until  I  had  left  enough  for  my  night's 
lodging.' 

Life  is  not  divided  into  compartments  so  that  a  tendency 
which  shows  itself  strongly  in  one  portion  can  be  entirely 
absent  from  any  of  the  rest.  It  may  at  once  be  admitted 
that  the  theatrical  element  entered  to  some  extent  into  the 
whole  of  Stevenson's  work.  Even  in  the  most  serious 
writings  a  fantastic  touch  at  times  reveals  some  straining 
after  effect  It  is  seen  in  several  sentences  of  his  prayers : 
'  Our  guard  is  relieved,  the  service  of  the  day  is  uver,  and 
the  hour  is  come  to  rest'  '  Let  not  our  beloved  blush  for 
us,  nor  we  for  them.'    '  Accept  us,  correct  us,  guide  us,  thy 

39 


it 

lit 


'!  I     I 


!  i 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

gmlty  innocent..'  After  .11  .Uow«ce  for  the  h.bitu.l 
we  of  unexpected  word^  some  slight  oonadouenees  of 
the  human  audience  remaine  in  such  petition..  The  «une 
tendency  doe.,  occadonally,  diattact  for  the  moment  hi.  uaual 
directnew  and  inaight  in  moral  rituationa    InBeauAuatin 

of  Dorothy  Muagrave.  an  appeal  to  honour  and  to  pity 
h^pen.  to  .trike  Au.tin  at  the  right  paychological  moment 
Bu^^  the  pictureaquenew  of  the  dinouenunt  obliterate,  too 
l^htly  a  l«,g  career  of  vice,  and  it.  victim,  aw  forgotten  as 
It  they  had  never  exiated.    Thi.  is  a  criticiam  which  may 

should  not  brood  over  his  failures,  but  should  strenuously 
make  the  most  of  what  i.  left.  Every  repentance  ha.  its 
picturesque  aq«ct.  but  it  is  not  weU  for  the  penitent  to 
remember  that.  In  moral  cri«»s  the  first  demand  i.  for  a 
reality  of  despair  so  intense  that  the  audience  has  vanished 
and  the  soul  is  alone  with  sin.  While  any  comicious  pose 
remains,  and  the  situation  appeals  to  the  penitent  as  a 
ofr^nd  °°^'  *'''  ^"*"°'*^^«  P"'  ^"1  »«P  too  easily  out 

Yet  so  slight  is  any  such  effect  that  it  seems  almost 
an  injustice  to  record  it  Granting  to  the  conscious  and 
picturesque  elements  their  full  weight,  the  reality  of  the 

tTeorv^of       •         °f*°"^  '^^^°'    ""^^^^^^^J^-   ««i    the 
theory  of  actmg  and  pose  as  an  explanation  of  his  general 

f  r  ^fe  »  an  absolutely  impossible  one.    The  prayers 
undoubted  y  show  an  unusual  finish,  and  sometimes  th" 

to  rise  to  God.  Yet  a  man  to  whom  expression  was  so 
severe  a  conscience  and  so  fine  an  art.  and  who  had  by  sheer 
abour  attained  such  perfection  of  minute  mosaicwork  I 

ifnLT  T*f  ^^  "^^  *  ^^'  '''  ^»»i«^  he  cannot 
expre^  himself  otherwise.    He  i.  but  praying  in  his  own 


ACTOR  AND   PREACHER 


dialect  If  w«  can  read  these  prayers  without  rerjrent 
Noognition  of  a  man  in  real  communion  with  his  God, 
we  are  no  competent  critics  either  of  Stevenson  or  of  any 
other  religions  man. 

In  the  same  way  we  must  judge  of  many  incidents  in 
his  career.  A  story  is  somewhere  told  of  his  carrying  an 
armchair  up  from  Heriot  Bow  to  a  sick  acquaintance  in  the 
Old  Town.  He  is  said  to  have  carried  it  on  his  head,  upside 
down.  That  was  acting.  He  might  conceivably  have  had 
it  conveyed  otherwise.  But  surely  no  one  will  deny  that  it 
was  also  genuine  human  kindness.  Again,  the  letter  quoted 
on  page  17  is  no  doubt  stagey.  Tet  the  postscript  shows 
plainly  that  he  meant  it  from  his  heart's  depths.  In  a 
passage  like  thi;: :  'Ton  wake  every  morning,  see  the  gold 
upon  the  snow-peaks,  become  filled  with  courage,  and  bless 
Gkxl  for  your  prolonged  existence '—in  such  a  passage  it  is 
possible  to  detect  in  the  reference  to  God  a  consciousness  of 
artistic  and  literary  effect,  and  the  love  of  strong  language. 
Tet  after  all  that  is  granted,  it  is  evident  that  here  is  one  to 
whom  God  is  nevertheless  a  reality  and  a  lifelong  presence. 
He  is  continually  telling  us  that  we  must  be  heroic  in  all 
situations.  No  doubt  there  were  invisible  fife-and-drum 
accompanimenta  to  his  thoughts  of  heroism,  but  surely  it 
is  heroism  none  the  less  for  these.  To  deny  this  would  be 
to  judge  in  the  spirit  of  an  age,  now  happily  past,  when 
Christian  burial  was  denied  to  actors. 

Especially  must  this  view  be  admitted  when  we  recollect 
how  deeply  conscious  Stevenson  was  of  the  danger  of  posing 
and  of  his  own  temptation  to  't  He  has  often  impressed 
upon  us  the  value  of  truth,  to  be  careless  of  which  'is  the 
mark  of  a  young  ass.'  Still  more  frequently  does  he 
expound  the  difficulty  of  telling  the  truth— a  somewhat 
less  customary  doctrine.  In  his  essay  on  ChiUCa  Play  there 
is  an  eloquent  plea  for  those  imaginative  children  who 

41 


i 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.   L.    BTBVBNSON 

•  walk  in  a  Ttin  show,  and  among  miate  and  rainbows,  who 
«w  pasrionate  after  dreams  and  nnconcemed  about  realities.' 
He  pleads  'that  whatever  we  are  to  expect  at  the  hands 
of  children,  it  should  not  be  any  peddling  exactitude  about 
matters  of  fact*    The  difficulty  of  saying  what  we  mean  in 
later  life  he  expounds  with  great  feeling  in  the  fourth  of 
the  Viiyimlnu  literitsue  essays  and  in  many  other  places. 
It  is  easy  for  those  who  hare  no  imagination  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  when  they  teU  it  it  is  apt  to  seem  intolerably 
uninteresting.    Stevenson  has  to  watch  and  pray  and  strive 
for  it    He  is  keenly  alive  to  the  danger  of  a  combination 
in  character  of  'outer  sensibUity  and  inward  toughness/ 
which  enables  a  man  to  appreciate  in  literature  the  finest 
morality,  while  he  himself  remains  stolid  and  unmoved. 
Of  his  own  danger  he  is  well  aware,  and  prays, '  Lord  defend 
me  from  aU  idle  conformity,  to  please  the  face  of  man ;  from 
aU  display,  to  catch  appkuse.'    Such  a  prayer  as  that  is 
^/always  answered.    To  be  conscious  of  the  danger,  is  to  be 
'^  far  on  the  way  to  overcome  it. 

One  might  go  further,  and  say  that  the  religion  of  almost 
everybody  is  more  or  less  of  this  sort  Religion  must  ever 
be  expressed  in  the  man's  own  particular  terms  and  style, 
and  is  seldom  quite  unconscious  of  itself.  But  surely 
religion  with  a  romantic  air  and  a  dash  of  scarlet  is  as 
legitimate  as  reUgion  in  dull  colours  and  carrying  (as 
Stevenson  might  have  put  it)  a  large  umbrella.  But  he 
strikes  an  attitude?  My  dear  reader, so  do  you  and  L  The 
difference  probably  is  that  his  attitude  is  picturesque.  Do 
not  let  us  look  askance  at  the  more  graceful  worshipper. 

For  indeed  in  aU  human  life  there  is  acting.  When 
Shakespeare  said  that  'all  the  world's  a  stage,  and  aU  the 
men  and  women  merely  payers,'  he  spoke  neither  in  jest 
nor  in  bitterness,  but  uttered  the  simple  fact.  In  all  of  us 
there  are  numberless  possible  attitudes  towards  good  and 
42 


'^f 


ACTOR  AND   PRBAOHBR 

evil  Among  theae  we  ohooM  some  and  reject  others ;  we 
think  of  ouBelves  in  such  and  tvoh  a  character,  and  adopt 
that  aa  our  rAle.  At  first  it  may  be  but  a  book  of  words  to 
us  which  we  hare  to  learn  painfully.  But  in  time  we  shall 
grow  accustomed  to  ourselyes  in  that  character — our  part 
will  have  become  reality  to  us,  whether  it  be  that  of  villain 
or  of  hero.  Thus  to  a  large  extent  we  must  necessarily  live 
from  without  inwards;  from  unconnected  acts  to  habits, 
from  words  to  thoughts,  from  conduct  to  character.  It  is 
not  the  acting  that  is  wrong,  but  the  parts  we  often  choose 
to  act;  and  the  highest  praise  shall  go  in  the  end  not  to 
those  who  have  simply  followed  nobler  instincts,  but  to 
those  who  have  chosen  and  acted  nobler  parts. 

So  it  was  in  Stevenson's  experience.  Many  actions  and 
courses  were  chosen  as  his  deliberately  adopted  rdle ;  and 
no  doubt  he  was  well  aware  of  their  picturesqueness  and 
efiiectiveness.  Tet  he  became  identified  with  the  parts  he 
had  chosen  to  play,  and  became  'tn.  jfigured  by  his  work.' 
The  religious  part  was  that  which  he  most  deliberately 
adopted.  More  and  more  naturally  he  fell  into  it  until  he 
was  indistinguishable  from  it,  and  it  became  the  natural 
expression  of  his  truest  self.  In  a  word,  he  was  so  made 
as  to  have  in  him  a  strong  taste  for  the  romantic,  a  dash 
of  bright  colour,  and  a  striking  attitude  for  every  part  of  his 
life.  These  elements  entered  into  his  religion  also.  But 
the  religion  did  not  on  that  account  cease  to  be  genuine 
religion.  It  was  just  the  religion  of  Bobert  Louis 
Stevenson. 


2.  Preacher 

It  has  been  frequently  remarked  that  the  actor  and  the 
preacher  have  certain  qualities  in  common,  and  every  one 
must  have   observed  that  in   the  work   of  many  great 

43 


H 


■■•■  "i 

'■  } 


I'l  '*h'    > 
3  rJ  ' 


THE    VAITH    OF   B.    L.    STIYBITSON 

prMchen  there  is  a  strongly  histrionio  element.    NcHher 
•otor  nor  preaoher  can  live  n-to  himself  slone:  each  is  bound 
to  keep  the  sndienoe  in  mind,  and  each  mnst  aim  at  effec- 
tiyeness.    The  actor,  indeed,  does  this  as  artist,  the  preacher 
as  prophet    No  donbt  the  lines  of  demarcation  may  often 
cross;  the  actor  may  be  a  prophet  and  the  preacher  an 
artist;  but  these  are  not,  according  to  the  common  estimate, 
their  immediate  and  essential  vocations.    Thns,  while  the 
actor's  consciousness  of  bis  audience  leads  him  to  think 
how  he  shall  appear  to  them,  the  preacher's  consciousness 
suggests  the  question  how  he  shall  lead  them  to  act    It  is 
a  radical  distinction,  and  yet  it  leaves  a  good  deal  common 
to  the  two.    The  combination  is  obvious  in  Stevenson. 
Even  in  his  most  solemn  sermon-work  he  never  quite 
forgets  appearances,  and  in  such  writings  as  the  Fables  the 
pose  is  so  evident  as  to  lend  an  air  of  unnatnralness  to 
the  preaching: 

Stevenson  was  a  bom  preacher.    It  is  said  that  preaching 
is  in  the  blood  of  all  Scotsmen,  and  that  they  go  all  over  the 
world,  and  in  whatsoever  place  they  find  themselves,  good  or 
bad,  they  conceive  of  it  as  a  pulpit  and  proceed  to  deliver  a 
discourse.    With  Stevenson  there  was  the  additional  fact,  as 
he  reminds  one  of  his  correspondents  when  the  letter  has 
become  a  kind  of  sermon,  that  be  was  'the  grandson  of 
the  manse.'    To  another  he  writes,  after  a  few  sentences 
of  sermonising, '  I  would  rise  from  the  dead  to  preach  1 '    It 
is  true  that  his  love  of  preaching  was  a  somewhat  onesided 
affair.    Along  with  some  other  preachers,  he  did  not  like 
listening  nearly  so  well  as  preaching.     like  his  father 
before  him  he  had  a  particular  aversion  to  all  things  and 
persons  '  tutorial,'  and  the  word  'rabbi*  stands  for  him  at 
the  extreme  point  of  disagreeableness.    At  times  he  gives 
utterance  to  sleeping  statements  which  would  tell  against 
his  own  methods  if  applied  to  them:  'There  is  an  idea 
44 


I'll 


AOTOB   AND   PBBAOHIB 


abroad  among  moral  people  that  they  should  make  their 
neighboun  good.  One  person  I  have  to  make  good: 
myself.  But  my  duty  to  my  neighbour  is  much  more 
nearly  expressed  by  saying  that  I  have  to  make  him  happy 
—if  I  may.'  A  oarions  aversion  to  the  clerical  profession 
is  uncompromisingly  proclaimed  in  some  of  his  earlier 
works;  but  perhaps  he  was  hardly  a  fair  judge  of  preaching 
in  those  bitter  days,  when  his  own  life  was  far  from  peace 
and  needing  other  sort  of  help.  Even  in  happier  times 
the  only  preacher  he  can  tolerate  is  the  cathedral  itself, 
which  preaches  night  and  day  and  sets  you  preaching  to 
yourself.  How  any  man  'dares  to  lift  up  his  voice  to 
preach  in  a  cathedral'  he  cannot  fathom.  'What  is  he 
to  say  that  will  not  be  an  anti-climax  ? ' 

Tet  the  instinct  of  preaching  is  in  his  blood,  and  in 
spite  of  all  he  has  to  say  against  the  office  he  preaches 
still  Sentences  about  historical  or  fictitious  characters 
tail  off  into  allusions  to  the  trespass  of  Achan  or  some 
other  biblical  theme,  in  the  exact  style  of  the  older  Scot- 
tish pulpit  Every  reader  has  to  reckon  with  this  instinct, 
and,  however  congenial  he  may  find  the  general  doc- 
trine, may  expect  some  pointed  homethrust  of  unwelcome 
truth.  Little  casual  touches  disclose  the  preacher  every- 
where, often  with  a  twinkle  of  fun  in  them.  His  Edinburgh 
readers  are  confronted  with  a  picture  of  themselves  which,  in 
the  old  Scottish  phrase,  is  very  faithful  dealing;  and  when 
Glasgow  smiles  complacently  the  preacher  turns  westward 
with  his  threat:  'To  the  Glasgow  people  I  would  say  only 
one  word,  but  that  is  of  gold:  /  have  not  torUUn  a  hook 
about  Olcugow.'  Surely  a  preacher,  in  all  the  glory  of  cassock, 
gown,  and  bands,  and  one  who  magnifies  his  office !  Some- 
times sermonising  is  the  deliberate  and  accepted  task,  and 
the  didactic  mood  gets  free  course.  The  charmingly  told 
conversation  with  the  Plymouth  Brother  of  the  Cevennc.  is 

40 


Hi 


ilil 


'}    im 


A; 
ill 


i4 


THl    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBTENSON 
•  CM6  in  point,  and  that  diMoone  about  knowing  the 
Loid  end*  abruptly  with 'I  did  not  know  I  wm  io  good  . 
pnjaoher/    The  Fabla  ia  a  kind  of  Ut  ..mtun  to  whoM  prin. 
oplw  he  gare  special  attention,  and  whioh  he  praotiMd 
with  great  ekilL    The  eermon  to  the  ohiefe  in  Samoa  and 
the  addreu  to  the  Samoan  atndenta  at  Malua,  with  iu 
^raoterietio  word  '  I  am   the  prophet  with   the  cloth 
before  hifc   face,'  are   epeoimene   of  the   pulpit-work  of 
one  who  entered  into  hie  tarft  with  guata     This  aelf. 
•ppointed  preacher  inatroota  the  clergy  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland  a«  to  their  duty  in  regard  to  the  ecdeaiaetical 
tttuation,  and  add.  a  note,  equally  authoriutive,  to  the 
laity.    In  Lay  MoraU  he  gives  forth  the  law  to  teachers  and 

parents,  and  in  ri»y»»i&M  p„erMj«,  to  married  persons  and 
those  looking  forward  to  the  married  state,  with  a  quite 
professional  confidence,  and  with  a  certain  old-world  and 
sermonesque  air. 

The  preacher's  instinct  has  much  to  do  with  his  selection 
and  use  of  words.    His  knguage  is  generaUy  noUble  for  its 
compression,  the  quality  he  most  of  all  valued  and  laboured 
for.    So  exquisitely  did  he  manipulate  his  words  that  the 
term  'mosaic-work'  has  been  appUed  to  his  writings     ^ 
more  than  one  critia  Even  when  the  style  flows  most  f .    y 
there  Iff  a  certain  stateliness  that  reminds  one  of  the    aen 
times  and  their  grand  manner.    Such  a  sentence  as 'the 
comfortable  gift  of  sleep,  which  comes  everywhere  and  to  all 
men  quenching  anxieties  and  speeding  time.'  might  have 
-.     rolled  forth  from  the  Ups  of  some  eloquent  divine  in  the 
y:  eighteenth  century.    But  more  frequenUy  the  words  are  so 
carefully  chosen,  and  the  meaning  so  compressed,  that  the 
flow  IS  checked  a  '  the  utterance  somewhat  abrupt    Each 
word  (»unts  for  so  much  that  we  have  to  pause  and  comuder 
It,  so  that  we  cannot  read  as  swifUy  as  if  the  writing  were 

more  careless.   This  sort  of  style  is  not  the  preacher's.    But 
46 


AOTOR  AND   PRIAOHIB 

S(«T0iM(m  has  hit  own  meCbod  <rf  reolaimiog  th«  effeet  h« 
loMi.  and  taming  eyen  Um  wut  of  mw  rctwndo  in  hit 
diction  to  Moonnt    He  does  thia  hj  the  introdootion  of 
unazpaetad  worda,  which  arraat  tha  attantioa     Soma- 
timaa  tha  worda  ara  tachnioal.  aa  whan  ha  talla  hia  laadara 
of  a  bnUding  buttnaaad  •  with  a  giaat  atnit  of  wood  lika  tha 
derriok  of  a  oiana/  or  of '  tha  tuna  of  alatting  canYai.'    To 
nona  bat  boildara  and  aaafarera  do  thaaa  worda  call  ap  an j 
very  daflnitaly  oomprahandad  imagaa.    Yet  they  ara  eflTect- 
ire,  both  on  acconnt  of  their  intereating  aonnda,  and  of  tha 
whole  apparatna  of  land  and  aea  machinaiy  which  they 
suggest.    He  ia  fond  of  borrowing  tachnioal  fragmento  of 
Tsrioos  crafts,  though  he  does  it  only  in  tonchea,  and  ncTer 
after  the  wholesale  faahion  of  Kipling.    Again,  the  worda 
are  sometimea  made  to  arreat  attention  by  the  mere  Tolome 
or  quality  of  their  sound.    He  was  extremely  aensiUve  to 
sounds,  and  alive  to  the  f  olneaa  and  richness  of  their  effect 
No  author  of  our  time  is  able,  with  anything  like  the  aame 
skiU,  to  give  their  fuU  value  to  resonant  and  detonating 
woids.    They  etrike  us  as  with  blows  from  a  steel  gauntlet 
Even  where  they  have  no  particular  significance  he  can  feel 
them  and  use  them  with  strong  effect    It  waa  a  prophecy 
of  this  Uteiary  ear  when  in  hia  childhood,  as  he  tells  us  in 
the  beautiful  Bo9a  Quo  Zoeormi,  he  was  fascinated  by  the 
Hebrew  name  which  he  spells  'Jehovah  Tschidkenu.'    It 
was  that  child,  when  he  became  a  man.  who  flung  such  a 
weird  spell  over  the  tale  of  the  Merry  Mm  by  the  haunting 
recurrence  in  the  wrecker's  soul  of  the  name  of  the  sunken 
ship  Christ' Anna. 

The  artifice  of  style,  however,  which  he  most  constanUy 
employs,  is  that  curtailed  form  of  the  antithesis  in 
which  words  are  coupled  in  unexpected  combinations. 
'The  genial  dangers  of  the  sea,'  'an  agreeable  dismay,' 
'annoying   and   attractive,  wild,  shy.  and  refined '—such 

47 


id 


'r-a 


•  ttl 


ill 


f:  1 


1'     i        '' 


THl   FAITH    OF   B.    L.    BTITFNSON 

phiMM  iUwtrato  the   figttit   of  spMh  known  to  thi 
oWar  rhotoriouins  ob  'tko  nupriM'  (v^  vp^aMMy) 
Thii  waywMd  nao  ( (  woitb  if  not,  m  might  be  imagiBtd 
hj  unfriendlj  criUot,  firuply  an  affoetation.    It  ia  •  mon 
or  loM   ooDMioiu     e.i      for   foroing  the  attonUon,  ia 
liou  of  tboM  awifl    uii  ,»e  ioda  which  ai*  th«  eaatomaiy 
mode  of  ontora.    '  ^  t '    i-    \,ter  writee  of  Ihabert  that  hi< 
aearch  'waa  not  ;,<i;   ,bc  tmooth,  or  winaome,  or  forcille 
word  ...  but  for  Lhc  \*o.fl'   acya'^jnent  to  ita  meaning'; 
in  other  tenna,  fjr     ;b     -ac^  ,., d.      hat  ia  the  atylist's 
inaUnot,  and  it  v.    !d  l>e     n   .  U  to  find  a  mora  perfect 
canon    for  atyle  ix    >vri/  .-.   ^wk.     But  the   preacher's 
inatinot  ia  different.    He  hi. i ..  u  immediate  effect  to  inoduce 
npon  hia  hearer;  and  while  theri.  can  be  no  relaxation  of 
the  demand  f«r  exaotneaa,  it  ia  neceaaaiy  for  him  to  take 
account  alao  of  fordblenesa.     Hij  word  ia   a  projectile 
chosen  for  purpoeea  of  attack,  acd  he  haa  to  eatimate  ito 
carrying  weight    It  waa  thna  that  the  inatinct  of  preaching 
did  aomething  to  mouW  the  atyle  of  Stevenaon.    Aa  we 
shall  aee  later,  it  did  mora  than  this.    It  determined  the 
choice  of  certain  unexpected  turns  of  thought  as  well  as  of 
diction.    Just  as  brilliant  words  flash  out  and  suddeuly 
strike,  so  realistic  descriptions,  epigrammatic  truths,  novel 
piesentationa  of  morals,  break  on  us  with  surprise.    In  the 
pUy  of  Maeaire  this  kind  of  work  is  run  into  burlesque, 
but  thero  ara  many  others  of  his  works  in  which  it  is  to  be 
found  in  all  seriousness. 

Much  of  all  this  mechanism  for  producing  effect  might 
be  classed  either  as  acting  or  as  preaching:  even  if  the 
word  pieachiug  be  admitted,  we  may  still  be  quite  out- 
side the  province  of  religion.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a 
mere  instinct  of  preaching  which  is  eutirely  destitute  of 
religious  qaaUty.  Ia  Tk4  Wrong  Boa:  there  is  a  character 
which  weU  iUustratea  this  fact   Mr.  Joseph  Finsbury,  in  the 


iiii 


AOTOB  AND   PEIAOHIR 


iiai.p«rlow  tad  ■lawrhTt,  ia  pnp«nd  to  daliTfr  •  Mnnon 
upon  taj  tut,  horn  Um  ivlatiTt  ooit  of  liTiag  in  S|rfts- 
bMgtD  tad  Btgdad,  to  the  oxaet  munbor  of  littm  in  the 
faf^  Bible.  Ae  regudi  the  artiet— in  this  oeie  the  eetor 
~it  i»  •  dMpated  point  whMher  the  quality  of  the  matter 
■hoold  be  t^cen  into  aoconnt  at  all ;  whether  art  ia  to  be 
allowed  to  concern  itself  with  anything  beyond  the  etyle  of 
expreasion.  Bat  with  regard  to  religion,  there  can  be  no 
sueh  qoestion.  Whether  the  iutinct  of  preaching  shall  pro- 
dace  merely  a  garrnloas  kind  of  egoism,  or  a  prophetic 
<  harden  of  the  Lord,'  depends  entirely  on  the  sobjeet-matter 
of  the  sermon,  and  the  moral  and  spiritual  pwpose  of  the 
preacher.  The  true  religion  of  a  literary  man  ia  to  have  a 
message  in  his  writing,  to  take  his  art  as  a  high  calling  to 
practical  service,  and  not  as  a  merely  decorative  art,  whoUy 
occupied  with  style.  Like  all  other  prophetic  men,  he  must 
have  been  taken  possession  of  by  some  truth  that  demanda 
attersQce.  No  convibLIuu  is  a  gospel  to  a  man,  nor  is  any 
man  a  prophet,  until  that  conviction  has  grown  so  impera- 
tive that  he  feels  that  '  necessity  is  laid  upon  him ;  yea, 
woe  is  unto  bim  f  he  preach  not  this  gospel.'  Judged  by 
this  test,  Stevenson  must  certainly  be  pronounced  a  pro- 
phetic man,  a  preacher  of  religion  in  the  true  sense. 
Heligion,  he  tells  us,  is  a  practical  affair.  It  is  a  rule  of 
life;  it  is  an  obligation  to  do  well.  The  preaching  of 
religion,  also,  is  an  affair  not  of  style  but  of  matter  and  of 
purpose.  He  haa  an  unbounded  contempt  for  those  who 
'  try  to  cover  their  absence  of  matter  by  an  unwholesome 
vitality  of  delivery.'  'It  is  one  of  the  worst  things  i 
sentiment,'  he  tells  us  in  another  book, '  that  the  voice  gro^  g 
to  be  more  important  than  the  words,  and  the  speak  .^  than 
that  which  is  spoken.'  He  thinks  but  poorly  of  his  owi< 
St.  Ive$  because  it  is  '  a  mere  tissue  of  adventures,'  with  '  nc 
philosophic  pith  under  the  yarn.'    Such  sayings  reveal  tb 

u  49 


:lii 

':«• 


THE    PAITH    OF  B.   L.   STBYBNSON 

PWMW.  ooMdence  dongride  the  «tiift.  In  Stevenson's 
w«k  «!•  inrtinot  of  prewhing  pwdnced  no  mere  phwe  of 
MtoityorMlenmtrickofwjting:  It  nude  him  one  of  the 
mort  foweftd  and  effeotire  p«Mhe»  of  rdigion  in  modem 

Uteratnre.  It  waa  his  nttenmoe  of  the  Word  of  the  Lord  to 
h«  generation. 


M 


THB   CHILD 


CHAPTER   IV 


THE  CHILD 


.ftf 


At  this  point  we  most  pause  for  a  little,  and  turn  our 
attention  to  the  sources  from  which  in  early  days  the  life 
and  faith  of  Stevenson  were  drawn.  In  one  sense  it  is  true 
that  every  personality  is  a  fresh  creation,  and  Carlyle's 
insistence  upon  the  individual  has,  at  least,  reminded  all 
aneceeding  generatbns  that  a  man  is  more  than  any  mere 
bundle  of  his  ancestors.  Yet  Carlyle's  is  a  very  one-sided 
trath,  and  the  most  original  personality  can  only  be  under- 
stood in  the  light  of  influences  not  controlled  by  its  own 
will  Ancestry  has  always  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  the 
influences  which  have  been  brought  to  bear  upon  the  man 
in  his  childhood;  and,  if  he  have  been  a  reader,  the  books 
which  he  has  read. 

The  subject  of  the  present  chapter  is  the  childhood  of 
Bobert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  its  influence  on  his  later  life 
and  work.  This  has  elsewhere  been  so  fully  and  so  charm- 
ingly depicted,  that  little  would  seem  to  be  left  to  say. 
The  child  'Smout'  is  almost  as  well  known  and  loved  as 
the  man  Stevenson.  Much  of  what  is  here  noted  has  been 
told  already,  but  no  account  of  his  religion  could  poadbly 
be  written  without  some  reference  to  thi*.  It  is  the  period 
during  which  the  first  ideas  enter  the  vacant  mind,  and 
occupy  its  virgin  soil;  when  the  wondering  baby  is  re- 
ceiving bis  first  and  strongest  impressions  of  the  world. 
'  A  man,'  says  Bichter, '  may  be  governed  through  his  whole 

61 


% 


li      'H'' ^MSLL 


:  T 

! 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.   L.   STBYBNSON 

life  by  one  diyine  image  of  his  .pring-time.'  Another  writer 
goes  the  length  of  aaaerting  that  'a  circonmavigatop  of  the 
world  gains  less  cnltnre  from  all  naUons  taken  together 
than  he  did  from  his  norse.' 

It  is  a  rare  privilege  to  get  a  glimpse  into  the  mind  of 
a  chUd,  and  to  be  permitted  to  watch  him  thinking.    Such 
glimpses  are,  in  the  case  of  Stevenson,  more  frequent  and 
more  delightful  than  in  that  of  almost  any  other  man  of 
letters.    He  has  described  for  us  the  scenery  of  early  chad- 
hood,  'observed  as  I  walked  with  my  nurse,  gaping  on  the 
muverse.  and  striving  vainly  to  piece  together  in  words  my 
inarticulate  but  profound  imprcssiomi.'    The  same  condition 
IS  described  in  the  incomparable  essay  on  OiW*  Play 
♦They  are  wheeled  in  perambulators  or  dragged  about  by 
nurses   in   a   pleasing  stupor.     A  vague,  faint,  abidinij 
wonderment  possesses  them.   Here  and  there  some  specially 
^emarkable  circumstance,  such  as  a  wate^cart  or  a  guards 
man,  fairly  penetrates  into  the  seat  of  thought  and  call, 
them,  for  half  a  moment,  out  of  themselves;  and  you  may 
see  them,  stiU  towed  forward  sideways  by  the  inexorable 
nurse  as  by  a  sort  of  destiny,  but  still  staring  at  the  bright 
object  in  their  wake.' 

Heredity  plays  as  large  a  part  in  religion  as  it  does  in 
any  department  of  human  life;  and  in  Scotland  then  are 
few  men  or  women  who  cannot  trace  their  religious  dis- 
positions to  some  ancestral  source.    Mr.  Craham  Balfour's 
W*  ofStemmn  and  the  FamUy  ofEngiium  make  it  very 
plam  that  Boberi;  Louis  Stevenson  was  no  exception     The 
women  of  the  family  were,  we  are  told,  extremely  pious,  the 
men  a  tnfle  worldly.    Yet  the  men,  too.  had  religion.    They 
we«,  .eoo«5io«,  like  aU  Scots,  of  the  fragiUty  and  unreaUty 
of  tha   s<»ne  ,n  which  we  play  our  uncomprehended  parts; 
Ilk.  aU   S«,to   reali«ng  daUy  and  hourly  the  861^0; 
"Other  wiU  than  ours,  and  a  perpetual  direcUon  in  the 


THE    CHILD 

tffiun  of  life.'    No  one  who  reads  the  eccoont  of  the  build- 
ing of  the  Bell  Book  laghthoiue  will  dispute  that  statement 
The  Sunday  prayers,  the  consecration  of  the  tower  to  'the 
Great  Architect  of  the  Universe/  and  indeed  the  whole 
tone  of  Bobert  Stevenson's  narrative  of  his  work  as  we  read 
it  in  ^  Family  of  Engineen,  discloses  a  rich  inheritance  of 
faith  and  character.    Bobert  Stevenson,  like  the  hero  of 
TUonderoga,  was  indeed  'an  ancestor  worth  disputing,'  and 
Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  had  a  peculiarly  strong  cariosity 
about  his  ancestors.    He  felt  in  the  study  of  genealogy 
'an  expansion  of  his  identity,'  and  expressed  the  wish  'to 
trace  my  ancestors  a  thousand  years,  if  I  trace  them  by 
gallowses  I'    He  made  strenuous  though  futile  efforts  to 
run  the  line  of  his  descent  up  past  the  Saxon  to  the  Celtic 
stock  of  the  clan  MacOregor;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  he  felt  a  bond  of  honour  laid  upon  him  by  the  religious 
character  which  he  so  plainly  descried  in  the  former  genera- 
tions of  his  family. 

We  owe  much  to  his  biographer  for  the  account  he  gives 
us  of  Thomas  Stevenson  and  his  wife.  7^  >  ascription  of 
the  latter  seems  strangely  familiar  to  those  over  whom  her 
son  has  cast  his  spell :  '  She  had  in  the  highest  degree  that 
readiness  for  enjoyment  which  makes  light  of  discomfort, 
and  turns  into  a  holiday  any  break  of  settled  routine.  Her 
desire  to  be  pleased,  her  prompt  interest  in  any  experience, 
however  new  or  unexpected,  her  resolute  refusal  to  see  the 
unpleasant  side  of  things,  all  had  their  counterpart  in  her 
son.'  The  extract  from  her  diary  cited  in  a  later  page  of 
the  biography  bears  out  the  estimate :  '  We  discover  that  it 
is  a  cattle-ship,  and  that  we  are  going  to  Havre  to  take  in 
horses.  We  agree  to  look  upon  it  as  an  adventure  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  ...  It  is  very  amusing,  and  like  a 
circus,  to  see  the  horses  come  on  board.'  Not  less  valuable 
is  the  account  of  Thomas  Stevenson.    In  it  we  see  the 

63 


f  J     m 


-M 


Jill 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBYBNSON 

(ftkher,  aud  uudentand  with  a  new  inteUigenoe  the  natun 
of  the  son.    The  penrene  element  is  thete;  the  many, 
sided  Celtic  temperament,  with  its  'hnmourand  melancholy, 
sternness  and  softness,  attachments  and  prejudices,  chivaliy, 
generosity,  and  sensitive  conscience.'    Above  all,  practicsl 
engineer  though  he  was,  'yet  it  was  from  him  that  Louii 
derived  all  the  romantic  and  artistic  elements  that  drew 
him  away  from  engineering.'     The  union   of   so   many 
qualities  gives  a  very  complex  character.    But  all  of  them, 
both  in  the  mother  and  the  father,  were  rooted  and  grounded 
in  faith.    It  is  true  that  in  the  Edinburgh  days  after  child- 
hood, the  religion  which  accompanied  them  appeared  to  have 
dropped  away  from  the  son,  and  that  for  kck  of  its  con. 
trolling  peace  the  other  elflments  struggled  in  tempestuous 
warfare;  but  in  kter  years  it  reappeared,  and,  both  in  its 
brighter  and  its  sterner  aspect,  gave  proof  of  the  greatness 
of  his  religious  inheritance. 

When  we  turn  to  the  days  of  childhood,  we  enter  a 
region  after  the  heart  of  Eobert  Louis  Stevenson.    'I  can't 
see  what  any  one  wants  to  live  for,'  he  makes  Nares  say  in 
Tke  Wrecker.    '  If  I  could  get  into  some  one  else's  apple-tree, 
and  be  about  twelve  years  old,  and  just  stick  the  way  I  was, 
eating  stolen  apples,  I  won't  say.    But  there's  no  sense  to 
this  grown-up  business.'    That  takes  us  back  to  the  days 
of  boyhood.    'Children  are  certainly  too  good  to  be  true,' 
takes  us  to  the  nursery  in  Heriot  Row.    The  story  of  these 
early  days  is  now  widely  known,  and  has  become  classical 
in  the  annals  of  child-life.    We  read  it  in  the  sketches 
entitled  Ifurees  and  Ifuits  Blancfua;  in  the  essay  on  aUd'i 
Play  and   many  other  pieces;  above   all  in  the  ChiMi 
Garden  of  Verses.    The  long  dark  nights,  the  terror  of  that 
galloping  horseman  the  wind,  the  lights  twinkling  across 
the  gardens  in  Queen  Street,  the  sepulchral  quiet  broken 
at  last  by  the  wholesome  noises  of  the  morning— these 
51 


lirii 


THB    CHILD 

teU  their  own  tale.  It  is  the  tale  of  a  litUe  chUd  whose 
nerves,  strained  to  the  ntmost  pitch  of  intensity,  tingle  in 
response  to  the  faintest  light  or  the  most  costomary  sound ; 
and  whose  imagination  follows  close  behind,  fitting  these 
sights  and  sounds  to  a  fine  tale  of  adventure,  or  with  cruel 
realism  lending  them  a  terrible  aspect.  This  childish 
imagination,  in  its  forms  both  of  nightmare  and  of  romance, 
does  exoelknt  service  in  Tmature  Iiland,  and  doubUess  has 
its  share  in  the  credit  for  that  book's  exceptional  popukrity 
with  boya  And  then  there  are  the  days  of  sickness,  when 
the  bed  becomes  now  a  boat  and  now  a  battlefield,  until 
the  dance  of  evening  shadows  on  the  wall  ends  the  day. 
All  chUdren  are  poets,  and  most  are  dramatists  as  well,  but 
in  these  wonderful  descriptions  there  is  the  promise  of 
something  quite  unusual  to  foUow  with  the  years— a  promise 
seldom  so  abundantly  fulfilled. 

We  owe  it  to  Stevenson's  peculiar  mental  constitution 
that  we  know  so  much  of  that  vivid  chUdhood.    Barrie  has 
defined  genius  as  'the  power  to  be  a  boy  again  at  wilL' 
Certainly  Stevenson  fulfilled  that  condition.    Writing  to 
Henry  James,  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight,  he  tells  him:  'I 
am  one  of  the  few  people  in  the  world  who  do  not  forget 
their  own  Uves.'    It  is  this  power  that  lends  its  intolerable 
pathos  to  Ordered  South  and  its  charm  to  So$a  Quo  Zoeonm. 
Most  of  us  are  so  taken  up  with  the  business  of  to-day 
and  the  prospect  of  to-morrow,  that  yesterday  is  seen  but 
obUquely  and  in  blurred  images.     Out  of  the  crowded 
scenes  of  the  past  there  may  be  one  or  two  which  retain 
through  life  their  sharp  edge  and  outline,  and  the  lusdous- 
ness  of  their  colouring.     But  most  memories  look  down 
upon  us,  like  the  picture  in  Olalla, '  with  ayes  of  pain.'— 
facts  among  the  other  facts  of  history,  which  in  a  logical 
conviction  we  know  to  have  happened  to  ounelves,  but  which 
in  no  sense  happen  to  us  any  longer.  They  are  but  pictures. 

66 


i! 


I 


11   :i 

!            J 

TM    FAITH    OF   B.    L.   8TBVXN80N 

•od  mott  of  th«m  are  dim.    Bat,  m  we  md  StoreiMon'i 
•oooont  of  his  pMt  chUdhood.  w«  f«el  that  his  memories  an 
•live.    He  itill  hean  the  tounds  and  eeee  the  sights  just  M 
he  did  then.    The  thoughts  and  feelings,  the  wonder,  fear 
and  admiration  of  a  Utde  ohUd's  Ufe  are  very  dilTerent 
ftom  the  blanted  and  restrained  ezperienoes  of  later  yean. 
In  an  hoar  of  quiet  now  and  then  we  catch  flying  glimpses 
of  the  old  self,  only  to  feel  how  far  away  it  all  is.  how 
hopeless  the  effort  to  live  at  that  intensity  again.    With 
him  it  was  otherwise.    He  seems  to  have  had  the  power 
literaUy  to  be  a  chUd  again,  with  all  the  child's  detail  and 
finality  in  its  own  experience,  and  all  the  stretch  and  wist- 
fulness  of  the  child's  horisons.   Many  of  us,  like  Mr.  Baildon. 
would  give  much  now  to  possess  that  gift    To  read  the 
0»tW«  Cfarden  of  Fem$,  or  any  other  of  the  writings  in 
which  the  early  days  are  stiU  aUve,  is  to  receive  ourwilves 
back  again  for  a  moment  from  the  dead. 

Although  every  book  written  about  him  has  recorded  some 

of  these  gUmpses.  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  temptation  to 

qaote  a  few  of  them  again.    When  he  describes  the  welcome 

country  carts  passing  at  last  in  the  morning,  you  know  that 

he  IS  hearing  once  more  the  various  sounds  that  'creaked, 

rolled,  and  pounded  past  my  windows.'     When  the  old 

gentleman  in  the  Wellington  boots  assures  the  little  boy 

that  he  had  been  just  such  another  at  the  same  age,  and 

the  little  boy  wonders  to  himself  'if  he  had  worn  at  that 

time  httle  Wellingtons  and  a  little  bald  head,'  we  recognise 

ourselves  thinking  as  we  used  to  think.    The  Chiltft  Cfarden 

IS  full  of  the  same  power.    Mr.  Baildon's  selection  of  the 

verses   on    TU   Caw   could   not   perhaps   be   surpassed. 

There  u  Atmti^s  Skirts  too: 

'  Wlwaerer  Anntie  mores  ammd 
Her  dreHea  make  a  ootmhu  Botmd, 
Thej  tnil  twhiiid  her  np  the  floor. 
And  trundle  after  through  tha  door.' 


THB   CHILD 

To  oUldrMi  upon  whom  the  iplendoar  of  an  aimt  haa  ihone, 
rapraMntiog  for  them  their  than  in  the  brighUy  oolonied 
life  of  some  other  town,  and  telling  of  the  kingdoma  of  the 
world  and  the  glory  of  them,  theae  detaila  are  irreaiatible. 
EqoaUj  ezaot  from  the  child'a  point  of  view  ia  The 
Oardtmr: 

'Th«  GMdenar  doM  not  lore  to  talk, 
He  makw  Bw  kM|>  th«  gnTel  wtlk'; 

• 
H«  digs  Um  flowen,  gmn,  nd,  and  Uim, 
Nor  wUbm  to  bo  apoken  to; 
He  dig!  the  llowen  and  enta  the  haj 
And  iMTer  eeiBM  to  want  to  pl»y.» 

That  is  all  there  ia  to  know  about  the  gardener  as  the  chUd 
sees  him.  One  more  verse  refuses  to  be  passed  by.  It  is 
the  aspect  of  the  day'a  routine : 

•  Brery  night  my  pnyen  I  aay 
And  get  ay  diiuw  eveiy  day, 
And  eray  day  that  IVe  been  good 
I  get  an  omnge  after  food. 

The  ehild  that  ia  not  dean  and  neat. 
With  lota  of  toya  and  thioga  to  eat, 

Maat  be  a  naof^ty  ohild  I 'm  anre, 
Or  elae  hia  dear  papa  ia  poor.' 

There  is  the  little  land  in  aU  its  aspecta-religion,  food, 
luxury,  duty,  poverty,  and  the  inevitable  moralising  on  them' 
all. 

Nor  was  this  power  of  recollecting  the  incidents  and 
reconstructing  the  thoughts  of  childhood  the  only  treasure 
which  Stevenson  rescued  from  the  past.  Childhood  waa 
not  for  him  a  vision  of  what  lay  irrevocably  behind,  seen 
wstfully  and  among  irrecoverable  things.  As  we  go  on 
through  the  years,  even  those  whose  memory  is  keenest  in 
imagmative  power  feel  that  the  great  doora  of  life  are 


t  Hi 

f 


M 
I 


THB    FAITH    OV   B.   L.   8T1YBN80N 

olodng  behind  Umid.    Crystal  doon  they  may  be,  aUowiog 
w  to  aee  what  onoe  we  Uved  in,  bat  doors  none  the  leH 
through  whioh  we  cannot  pass.    Sterenson,  in  his  dedica- 
tion to  rifffwam  Amtm^im.  oonfesssa  that  though  he  clang 
to  the  earlier  self,  time  was  too  maoh  for  him,  and  hit 
work  showed  signs  of  advancing  age.    With  characteristic 
adaptation  to  the  facta  of  the  case  he  falls  back  upon  the 
conviction  that '  it  is  good  to  hare  been  yonng  in  yonth  and, 
as  yean  go  on,  to  grow  older.'    For  the  study  aphorism  we 
hare  good  reason  to  thank  him;  bat  we  envy  him  for  the 
extraordinary  meuare  in  which  for  himself  it  was  not  true. 
Doubtless  on  him  too  the  shades  of  the  prison-house  fell,  and 
that  heavily.    Yet  he  had  greater  Uberty  granted  him  of 
escaping  from  them  now  and  then  than  is  given  to  almost 
any.    To  the  end  he  kept  a  secret  key  for  the  crystal  doors, 
and  ran  back,  almost  at  pleasure,  laughing  into  his  childhood 
In  one  sense  he  aged  before  his  time;  in  another  and 
equaUy  true  sense  he  never  grew  up  at  all     He  never 
passed  that  bourne  at  which  the  picturesque  is  laid  down  in 
favour  of  the  merely  sane,  and  enthusiasm  gives  place  to 
common-sensa    Every  reader  of  Vailima  Letters  in  the  old 
edition  must  have  noted  the  boyishness  of  the  pictures 
there,  especiaUy  that  in  which  he  sita  on  horseback.    It 
reminds  one  of  the  ending  of  Letter  xx.— 'also  please  send 
me  a  cricket-bat  and  a  cake,  and  when  I  come  home  for  the 
holidays  I  should  like  to  have  a  pony.    I  am,  sir,  your 
obedient  servant,  Jacob  Tonson.    PJS.—1  am  quite  well ;  I 
hope  you  are  quite  weU.   The  world  is  too  iruch  with  us,  <^d 
my  mother  bids  me  bind  my  hair  and  lace  my  bodice  blu&' 
It  is  not,  however,  only  in  such  occasional  outbursts  of 
high  spirita  that  the  perpetual  youthfulness  of  Stevenson  is 
revealed.    He  appeaxf  to  be  constanUy  thinking  about  toys 
and  games,  as  children  do.    The  cannibals  mTht  Idt  of 
Voices  remind  him  of  •  a  child  when  he  is  all  alone  and  has 
68 


THB    CHILD 

•  woodm  fwofd,  mi  ig^u,  Itaping  and  hewing  with  the 
empty  air.'    The  hooeea  in  Boritaritari  an  of  aU  dimen- 
lione— 'only  in  the  plaTroom,  when  the  toyi  an  mingled, 
do  we  meet  rach  incongraitiee  of  scale.'    In  IJU  Tna$urt 
ofFnmkard  the  Doctor,  looking  down  on  Gnts  from  his 
hill-top,  sees  the  pUoe  dwindle  to  a  toj,  a  handful  of  roofs. 
When,  in  Th»  Wrkktr,  the  searchen  an  demolishing  the 
stranded  Flying  Send  in  searoh  of  tnasur*-'  We  wen  now 
aboat  to  taste,  in  a  supnme  degne,  the  doable  joys  of 
demolishing  a  toy  and  playing  "Hide  the  handkerohief"— 
sports  from  which  we  had  all  perhaps  desisted  since  the 
days  of  infancy.    And  the  toy  we  wen  to  bnnt  in  pieces 
was  a  deep-sea  ship;  and  the  hidden  good  for  which  we 
were  to  hunt  was  a  prodigious  fortune.'    The  last  quotation 
happily  links  the  work  with  the  play  of  life,  its  haid 
realities  with  its  pleasant  and  childish  fancies.    This  is  no 
new  association ;  but  it  is  usually  not  without  bitterness  that 
a  writer  nminds  us  what  babiee  we  all  are.     'Ah  vawitaa 
vanitaium\  which  of  us  is  happy  in  this  world?    Which 
of  OS  has  his  desin?  or  having  it  is  satisfied ?     Come, 
chUdren,  let  us  shut  up  the  box  and  the  puppets,  for  our 
pUy  is  played  out.'    How  different  is  Thackeny's  sad  con- 
clusion from  the  sprightly  and  deUberate  confession  of 
childishness  which  runs  through  Stevenson's  work. 

He  not  only  thought  about  toys,  he  played  with  them. 
When  over  thirty  years  of  age  we  stUl  find  him  pkying  and 
unashamed,  pUying  with  tin  soldiers,  building-bricks,  and 
paint-boxes.  At  the  age  of  thirty-eight  he  is  composing 
music  for  the  tin  whistle  (his  favourite  infifcrument  of  music) 
and  exphuning  that  he  has  'always  some  chUdishness 
on  hand.'  So  strong  is  his  passion  for  games  that  in 
Apemama  he  masters  an  inconceivably  dreary  variation 
of  the  game  of  poker,  invented  by  the  king,  and  exults  in 
the  distinction  of  being  'the  only  white  who  has  fairly 

M 


THB   FAITH    OF  B.    L.   STIYINSON 
SiMpad  it«  priBoi|>l«.'     Hit  favoorito  pMtim*  wm  the 
''w^IMn*  with  tin  Mldicn.    la  his  booM  at  y«ai«M.u 
fonsirij  at  Davw,  a  Mom  wm  stk  apait  for  tUt  aaiiN. 
■Matt  and  the  eampaigai  want  w  lor  dayi  andai  alahorate 
nUes  of  hi«  own  invootion.    H«  nooids  with  intowt  the 
ouriona  ooiaoidaioe  that  the  stepfather  of  Bobert  Steranaon 
of  the  BeU  Hook,  fall  at  the  end  of  hia  life  into  the  aane 
fnUe.  and  'hia  hrnHy  mnat  entertain  hia  with  gamaa  of 
kinaoldien,  which  he  took  a  ehildiah  pleaaue  to  array  and 
OTcnet'  Ai  for  BobartLoniaStarenaon,  the  delight  in  toys 
meybeaeeninnumydetailaof  hiaVailinialife.    HiareU. 
tiooa  with  the  nativea,  the  abaorbing  attention  which  he 
beatowa  vpon  the  detaila  of  hia  houae-boilding  and  decora- 
tion, baddaa  maoh  elae,  remind  oa  of  ohild'a  play.    He  even 
want  the  length  of  writing  for  hurge-aiied  gilded  letten 
of  the  alphabet  to  be  deaigned  for  the  pwpoee  of  flxing 
inaeriptioBa  on  hia  inner  wall  eoamiemocatiTe  of  the  viaiU 
of  hia  frienda 

Thwe  ii  one  anall  portbn  of  hia  work,  litde  known 
indeed,  but  tanking  rery  high,  in  which  we  aee  the  child- 
likeneaa  of  Steirenaon  at  ita  beat    The  LOtm  fnm  SamM 
to  Towtng  People  aie  choice  reading.    A  Udy  in  England 
wrote  him  asking  for  lettera  abont  hia  •  boys,'  for  the  aake 
of  little  giila  in  a  home  for  aick  children.    The  letten  are 
modela  of  chUd-work— tales  and  deecriptiona  told  by  one 
child  to  other  children.    They  centre  round  the  penonaUty 
9»d  adventurea  of  •  the  lean  man '  who  writea  them.    Erery 
figure  ia  aliye,  and  erery  sentence  telle  ita  tale.     Along 
with  these  are  some  letten  to  Austin  Strong,  aa  virid  and 
aa  Caadnating  aa  the  reat    There  is  no  laughing  at  the 
children.    He  takea  them  and  their  aflain  aeriously,  thinks 
what  would  appeal  to  them,  and,  by  admitting  them  aa  it 
were  into  partnenhip  of  inteteata  with  himself,  offen  them 
the  only  kind  of  flatteiy  that  ia  either  decent  or  helpful. 
60  '^ 


THB    OaiLD 

I»wmb««pp««itotTwymd«rtltttiJl  this  hM  • 

«f^ildiiood.irlddifc,,,edW  aottMtlyMid  inwhich  hi 
Ut«1  m«eli  to  tlM  «d,w«,  day.  in  whWi  1,,WM,M  h, 
W»«lf  ■•Jt,  'eminnUy  wUgio.^.     Out  of  the  nuuiy 

inckienti  fflf  which  we  •».  ii»debtod  to  Iff .  OialMun  Bdfoitt 
ooe  only  d«U  b.  q«otod.  bul  it  i.  typied  of  «uiy  nH)m. 
Itit.Myag  Nooided  by  his  »oth« i«  th.  fowth y«u of 
hi«  ■«•:  •!-«  Mid,«Yo«  can  nww  b.  good  iiiil«g  yoa 

W"  Wtoi  «k.d  how  h.  k».w.  h.  «id  with  girt 
•»ph«l%-B«»a.,rTotri«iiC'.  Ofooqmitwoiiil 
•hroid  to  dto  any  meh  inoidont  m  evidnot  for  •  mta't 
iriigioD.  batat  l«Mt  it  diowi  m  what  waa  tha  intatmo. 
•ph«»aaddiiiiatoofhi.lif*  No  o»a  can  toU  how  nmch 
it  h«i  to  do  with  the  Wth  and  character  of  lator  yaan. 

Ewiy  child  ii  more  or  lew  derout  in  early  childhood.  It 
needs  bat  a  tonch  to  awaken  the  reeponM  to  Godwho«i 
h^venhee  about  «aU  in  oar  infancy.   It  would  eeem  that 

fterenBon.  childhood  WM  mow  than  u«iaUy  laligiou..  and 
thoM  who  appredato  reUgion  must  feel  that  this  circum- 
•tanceertean-dalTalue  on  hie  power  of  reooUecting  hi. 
childhood  «id  continuing  to  be  a  child.  To  «,yert  to  .uch 
•  childhood  i.  to  be  led  conetantly  in  among  religiou. 
thought,  .nd  idealc  Th^  were  to  a  great  «teTZ 
thought,  and  ideal,  of  his  nurse.  Alison  Cunningham  a 
Chnstm  believer  of  the  older  Scottish  MhooL    Yet  they 

w«e  hi.  own  also,  and  long  aftor  he  had  p.«ed  out  of  the 
influence  of  her  creed  he  retained  much  that  he  had  learned 
from  her.    The  vivid  memory  of  one's  former  simplicity  of 

hi"  *°^  !™i:  "^  "  ^™^""«  •P'^  *>' «'-«^ce. 
mtbe  words  of  Bossetti: 

'  (hough  I  lorad  not  holj  tUnn. 
To  h«»  th«a  mockwl  bfwwht  wrfii7 
ThiywwBjrohildhood.' 


M 


i( 
■  ■  1  i 

1 : 

1 

I  -i, 


m 


TU   VAITH   OV  B.   L.   8T1TINS01I 

Still  Bctt  iapoiiaat  to  <mr  pmtnil  stodj  i*  tbt  (Mt  of 
Ui  eontliiiMd  oUkDiktBMs  of  ipMi  II  i»  by  this,  most 
<rf  all,  that  h»  h$M  '  BMida  w  •!!  cbildnn  pwfono*,  m  * 
ehild  dmwsoff  a  nlnetanttldtrtoplay.uid  w  ftfrathM  and 
itnawa  hia  yoothu'  It  woold  ba  difbrnlt  to  oraraatiiiiate 
tlM  praciooanaaa  of  thia  ona  aanioa.  In  tha  arar-inoraasixtc 
nub  and  driTO  of  lift  wa  grow  old  all  too  rapidly.  Tbe 
favar  makaa  na  grqr  bafora  oar  tima.  1^  praaaanra,  in  an 
aga  lika  tbia,  tha  apirit  of  tba  obsld  aliira  to  tha  and,  is  to  be 
a  graat  banaflwtor.  Bran  whan  tha  darknaaa  oppraaaea  him 
Stavanaon  ia  atiU  tha  child.  At  tha  aga  of  twanty-nino  ha 
writaa  baa  Oalilomia:  'Bat  daath  is  no  bad  fUand;  a  few 
adiaa  and  gaapo,  and  wa  ara  dona ;  lika  tha  traant  child  I 
am  baginning  to  grow  waary  and  timid  in  thia  big  joatliog 
dty,  and  ooold  ran  to  my  naraa,  aran  though  aha  had  to 
whip  ma  bafora  patting  ma  to  bad.'  Sight  montha  before 
tha  and  ha  writaa  again :  'Bitt  aa  I  go  on  in  Ufa,  day  by 
day,  I  baooma  more  of  a  bewilderad  child;  I  cannot  get 
naad  to  thia  world.'  T^oA  waa  at  tha  wont,  and  at  tbe 
wont  it  waa  a  good  thing  for  him  to  be  a  bewildered 
child  and  not  a  grown-ap  cyme.  Bat  than  waa  a  better 
chiUlhood  which  remained— a  fnah  raadinasa  for  imprei- 
aiona,  an  nndollad  appreciation  of  whataoever  things  were 
loTaly,  an  ungoardad  forwardnMS  in  entering  into  new 
sitoations  and  risking  new  adventurea.  Beneath  all  the 
complex  play  of  thought  and  feeling  upon  the  varied  ex- 
perience of  life,  thwe  remained  the  naXveU  that  is  possible 
only  to  the  childlike. 

We  need  to  remind  onrsdvea  that  this  is  what  Christ 
claimed  to  be  a  characteristic  mood  of  Christianity.  To 
antor  that  Kingdom  a  man  most  be  bom  again,  even  when 
he  ia  old,  and  become  a  little  child.  Christian  teachers 
have  aometimea  mis^propriated  that  'childhood  of  the 
Kingdom.'  It  does  not  mean  the  renunciation  of  intellect 
68 


THS    CHILD 

in  broor  of  •  ohutOi'i  dog...  it  ^mn,  aoawthing  br 
Botf  hoiMB  Md  mort  bwatifui  Ik  iii«m  wo«d«,  and 
hamiliftj.  Md  mpoMifWMt-iha  stiaight  gue  of  cWld- 
hood  pMt  ooaTMtioiwUtiM.  th«  liinpUdty  of  a  mind  opea 
to  wj  truth,  Mdahowt  with  love  •Ii»«  in  it 


III 


ffi.rl 


M 


THl   FAITH    OF   R.    L.    8TSYBN80N 


CHAPTER   V 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 


Wi  have  already  had  f^Hmp&u  of  a  very  fresh  and  origixud 

manhood  evolving  itself  out  of  a  childhood  which  maj 

be  tmly  called  uuiqaa     The  natural  sequel  would  be  one 

of  those  '^e-minded'  children  of  Nature,  who  seem  to  have 

no  need  for  tiie  thoughts  of  others.    They  live  with  Nature 

and  hear  her  message  to  themselves.    They  are  withdrawn 

alike  from  conventionalities  and  from  opinions,  aloof  from 

life  in  the  self-dependence  of  those  who  live  self'poised 

and 

'drauad  not  that  tiM  thing*  uoond  than 
Yitld  them  lore,  amnwment,  tpnftXhj.' 

But  Stevenson  was  not  one  of  that  company.  He  was 
indeed  eye-minded,  and  his  keen  senses  kept  him  in  direct 
contact  with  the  things  around  him.  life  was  more  to 
him  than  theories  of  life,  and  to  be  vital  a  higher  ambition 
than  to  be  well  informed.  Tet  he  combined  with  hU 
originality  a  taste  for  books  and  a  lifelong  habit  of  hard 
reading  whi')h  are  rarely  found  along  with  it  Indeed,  it 
is  in  that  combination,  more  perhaps  than  in  any  other  trait 
of  his,  that  there  lies  the  secret  of  his  flexible  strength  and 
subtle  wisdom.  He  is  at  once  instinctive  and  educated, 
and  so  wields  a  double-edged  sword.  In  a  memorable 
passage  on  the  morbidness  of  youth  he  gives  his  own 
experience  on  the  point:  'Books  were  the  proper  remedy: 
books   of   vivacious  human  import,  forcing   upon   their 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

mindi  the  ismes,  pleMores,  boayueaa,  importance,  and 
immediaojr  of  that  life  in  which  they  stand;  books  of 
uniling  or  heroic  temper  to  excite  or  to  console ;  books  of  a 
large  design,  shadowing  the  complexity  of  that  game  of 
consequences  to  which  we  all  sit  down,  the  hanger-back  not 
least' 

Thus  did  books  help  him,  and  yet  he  never  was  a  student 
in  the  severe  and  technical  sense.    It  was  the  vital  spirit 
of  the   books   that   appealed  to   him   rather  than  any 
exact  system  of  knowledge  which  they  might  have  built 
up.    Some  books,  indeed,  he  read  maiiily  for  their  literary 
value,  in  the  days  when  he  was  training  himself  by  vigor- 
ous discipline  to  the  achievement  of  style.    But  there  was 
always  a  deeper  quest  in  his  reading— a  quest  for  truth  and 
Ufe.    Never  could  it  be  said,  like  the  reading  of  the  Master 
of  fiallantrae,  to  'pass  high  above  his  head  like  summer 
thunder,'  nor  to  be  to  him  •  a  source  of  entertainment  only, 
like  the  scraping  of  a  fiddle  in  a  change-house.'    It  was 
one  of  the  main  sources  from  which  his  personality  drew  its 
richness  and  variety.    '  I  have  only  to  read  books,  to  think,' 
he  tells  us,  ...  « the  mass  of  people  are  merely  speaking  in 
their  sleep.' 

The  paternal  library  would  seem  to  have  been  of  the 
anatere  order,  with  a  few  bright  and  surprising  islands 
such  aa  Bob  Itoy  and  Jiobinxm.  Crusoe  in  its  grey  sea  of 
information.    These  were  soou  mastered,  and  then  came  the 
time  when  he  went  forth  to  discover  his  own  reading  in  the 
wide  world  of  Uterature.    From  first  to  last  he  must  have 
read  an  amazing  variety  of  books.    The  lists  of  volumes  he 
sends  for  in  letters  from  the  South  Seas  show  a  catholic 
appetite  and  a  power  of  digestion  equal  to  the  most  miscel- 
laneous intellectual  provender.     Of  American    Uterature 
there  are  fewer  traces  than  might  have  been  expected,  and 
It  IS  curious  to  note  that  the  Americanisms  in  diction, 

X  «0 


( ■. 


Mr  ' 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVENSON 

which  most  Britons  who  cross  the  Athmtic  find  so  infec- 
tious, are  with  one  or  two  exceptions  conspicuous  by  their 
absence  in  his  work.  Thoreau  and  Whitman  were  con- 
genial,  and  his  essays  on  tlMse  authors  show  how  deeply 
they  had  influenced  him.  Emerson  also  has  had  his  effect 
—who  that  has  ever  opened  his  books  has  remained 
unaffected?  It  may  very  likely  be  a  chance  coincidence, 
but  if  so  it  is  a  striking  one,  that  Stevenson's  Houm  Beauti- 
ful' is  to  a  laige  extent  but  an  exquisite  expansion  of 
Emerson's  words:  'Crossing  a  bare  common,  in  snow 
puddles,  at  twilight  under  a  clouded  sky,  without  having 
in  my  thoughts  any  occurrence  of  special  good  fortune,  I 
have  enjoyed  a  perfect  exhilaration.  I  am  glad  to  the 
brink  of  fear.' 

The  influence  of  French  literature  is  far  more  evident. 
He  had  felt  the  mighty  power  of  Hugo,  and  even  his 
criticisms   of   that   great   novelist   bear    witness    to   his 
admiration.     Dumas  is  the  counterpart  influence  to  that 
of   Hugo,  the   aggressively  living   and   human   force  of 
D'Artagnan  appealing  to  one  side  of  his  nature  as  strongly 
as  the  cosmic  tragedy  of  Hugo's  great  trilogy  appeab  to 
another  side.    In  Sainte-Beuve's  work,  with  its  wealth  of 
psychological  criticism,  he  found  much  that  was  congeniaL 
III    Montaigne— that   unblushing,   erudite,   common-sense 
pagan— he  found  perhaps  even  more.     In  regard  to  con- 
temporary British  authors,  one  is  not  surprised  to  find 
him  abandoning  Carlyle.    It  was  to  save  his  style  that  he 
did  this,  but  in  truth  there  is  much  difference  of  a  deeper 
sort  between  their  points  of  view.     Meredith  he  knew 
and  loved  as  a  friend;  and  tho'jgh  there  is  a  somewhat 
extraordinary  lack  of  reference  to  his  novels,  their  in- 
fluence,   both    as   regards    mannerism    and   thought,   is 
frequently  in  evidence.    Browning  was  not  so  well  known 
in  the  seventies  as  he  is  to-day.    Yet  in  1871  Stevenson 
66 


4  Mi 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

quotes  a  verse  of  A  QramrmriarCg  Futural  in  oue  of  his 
CoUegc  Papers-  aad  there  are  a  good  many  traoM  of 
Paracdms.  Chn-istmas  Eve,  and  other  poems.  In  their 
general  tone  and  attitude  the  two  are  closely  and  deeply 
aUied,  and  he  quotes  the  famous  lines  on  temptation  in  the 
last  volume  of  The  Piny  and  the  Book  as  'the  noblest 
passage  m  one  of  the  noblest  books  of  this  century.' 

It  is,  however,  among  the  older  English  and  Scottish 
wnters  that  we  must  look  in  order  to  find  the  liteimture 
to  which   he   owed    most.     For   the  English    literatnre 
of  the  eighteenth  century  he  had   a  strong  admiratioiL 
although  he  never  felt  the  spell  of  Addison.    Doubtless  ite 
opulent  and  placid  worldliness  attracted  him  on  one  aUt 
of  his  nature,  but  it  was  perhaps  more  an  attractkm  of 
style  than  of  matter.    To  this  attraction  we  owe  a  certain 
occasional  smooth  eloquence  and  careful  balance  in  his 
construction  of  sentences  which  at  times  makes  his  woric 
sound  antiquated. 

In  the  Scottish  life  and  literature  of  the  past  we  have  a 
mme  from  which  he  dug  far  richer  treasure.    The  passionate 
loyalty  w,th  which  his  heart  always  warmed  to  Scotknd 
u.  famihar  to  every  reader.     Frail  health,  which  forced 
him  to  leave  and  stay  away  from  his  native  land,  added  to 
his  patnotism  all  the  intensity  of  exile.    Even  the  climate 
which  when  near  at  hand  he  had  pronounced  'one  of  the 
vilest  chmates  under  heaven.'  becomes  glorified  to  'winds 
austere  and  pure'  when  remembered  in  Samoa.    Among 
the  books  of  his  father's  coUection  which  we  find  him 
wadmg  as  a  boy  is  Billings's  Antiquities  of  Scotland.    But 
the  stones  of  Edinburgh  were  his  great  Scottish  book. 
Among  them  he  wandered,  identifying  the  houses  which 
romantic  histoiy  had  marked  for  its  own.    He  repeopled 
the  changed  streets  with  their  ancient  dead.  nnW   the 
modern  life  of  the  city  seemed  utterly  irrelevant.    Of  all 

67 


in 


k 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

books  written  aboat  Edinborgh  since  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
there  are  none  that  come  anywhere  within  sight  of  what 
he  has  written  for  vividness  and  feeling.  '  That  dear  city 
of  Zeus,'  which  casts  so  strong  a  spell  over  those  who  know 
it  as  their  home,  seems  to  open  new  deptlis  of  its  heart  and 
to  unroll  new  aspects  of  its  beauty  every  time  we  turn 
these  living  and  loving  pages. 

There  was  a  side  of  old  Edinburgh  life— the  side  of 
which  Scott  has  given  the  world  a  glimpse  in  Ony  Man- 
ntring,  of  which  Creech  and  Jupiter  Carlyle  knew  and 
told, — whose  significance  is  usually  overestimated  by  our 
critics.  This  aspect  of  the  past  has  been  taken  in  connec- 
tion with  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  as  typical  of  his  Scottish 
heritage.  That  it  is  a  real  side  of  old  Edinburgh  life,  no 
oue  denies.  But  a  Scotsman's  heritage  is,  like  a  well-kuown 
personage's  acquaintance  with  London,  extensive  as  well  as 
peculiar.  While  the  period  is  typical  of  one  side  of  ancient 
Scottish  life,  it  is  but  just  to  remember  that  behind  it  lie 
the  events  which  have  peculiarly  marked  Scotland  for  their 
own  —  the  Covenants,  the  Reformation,  and  the  Wars. 
No  doubt  the  kennel  flowed  on  alongside  them  all,  but 
what  land  can  claim  that  it  is  otherwise  with  any  chapter 
of  its  past  ? 

When  Stevenson  wandered  through  the  ancient  life  of 
Edinburgh  in  search  of  history  and  romance,  he  found  that 
as  well  as  other  matters,  and  recorded  it.  In  his  picture  of 
New  Year's  Day  drunkenness  he  has  noted  one  of  the  most 
obvious  instances  in  which  its  tradition  remains;  and  ia 
Mother  Clarke's  room  in  Deacon  Brodie  he  has  pictured  its 
lower  side  very  faithfully.  Among  the  '  numbered  houses 
of  romance'  there  still  runs  a  curious,  dark,  and  ancient 
alley  bearing  the  name  of '  Brodie's  Wynd.'  Its  tradition  is 
of  a  leading  eighteenth-century  citizen,  a  master-craftsman, 
an  ornament  of  the  secular  and  religious  life  of  his  time, 
68 


THB    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

who  lived  a  double  life— leader  of  respectability  by  day 
baiglar  and  debauchee  by  night    The  subject  was  irre- 
siatible  to  a  romantic  genius  like  Stevenson's,  who  himself 
htd  made  acquaintance  with  the  strange  under-world  of 
Edinbuigh  society;  and  he  gave  us,  in  collaboration  with 
Mr.  Henley,  his  play  of  l>eaeon  Brodie,  or  The  Double  Life. 
Apart  from  its  merits  or  demerits  as  a  play,  the  piece  is 
noteworthy  as  a  living  picture  of  the  times  it  represents. 
By  countless  minutest  touches  it  wakens  response  in  a 
Scottish  reader.    Even  its  use  of  the  title  'Deacon'  ('lie 
there,  deacon,'  etc.  etc.)  is  true  to  the  life;  for  the  old-time 
Scotsman  rejoiced  in  all  that  was  in  the  nature  of  a  title. 
He  named  himself  from  his  work,  and  was  to  his  neighbours 
'the  smith,'  'the  minister,'  and  so  on,  as  by  a  conscious 
claim  of  right.    In  this  characteristic  trifle  and  many  other 
touches  besides,  the  native  reader  sees  to  what  purpose 
Stevenson  loved  and  studied  Scotland.    Yet  beyond  all  tk^u 
there  is  the  grim  psychology  of  the  closing  scenes  of  the 
play,  to  say  nothing  of  their  melodrama.     Very  differeut 
this  from  Sir  Walter's  amused  acceptance  of  the  situation. 
He  who  would  know  the  real  meaning  of  Stevenson's  visit 
to  Brodie's  Wynd  must  read  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  which 
is  its  ultimate  product,  and  wliich  appeared  six  years  after- 
wards.    For  the  sake  of  its  romance  it  interested  him,  but 
not  for  that  alone.    It  took  him  in  among  the  tragic  facts 
of  Scottish  Calvinism,  and  formed  a  stepping-stone  in  his 
journey  back  to  the  earlier  times  of  the  Covenanters. 

The  influence  which  the  covenanting  history  of  Scotland 
exercised  over  him  was  profound,  and  there  is  hardly  a 
book  of  Ilia  that  does  not  bear  some  trace  of  it.  Part  of 
ite  interest  is  romantic,  as  any  one  may  see  who  reads 
Patrick  Walker's  account  of  Richard  Peden,  or  indeed  any 
other  covenanting  book;  and  that  romantic  spell  is  over  the 
whok  of  Weir  of  Hermiston.     Yet  there  is  far  more  that 

69 


-^ 


m 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    BTBYENSON 

conneota  Stevenaon  with  the  Jovenanten  than  the  ciy  of 
the  whanpa  about  the  grayea  of  the  martjta.  or  the  'grey 
recumbent  tomba  of  the  dead  in  deaert  plaoea.'    He  had  a 
covenanting  anoeatry.     On  the  mother'a  aide  an  James 
Balfour  of  St  Gilea,  connected  by  marriage  with  Andiew 
Melville  the  Reformer ;  and  poaaibly  John  Balfour  of  Burley, 
the  Balfour   of  Old  Mortality.     In   tracing  hia    father's 
anceatry  in  A  Family  of  Engineers  he  dwells,  with  evident 
pride  in  the  connection,  on  one  John  Stevenaon,  land- 
labourer  in  the  pariah  of  Daily  in  Carrick,— 'that  eminently 
pious   man,'  whose   remarkable   experiencea,  bodily  and 
apiritual,  he  relatea  at  length.    In  a  letter  written  from 
Samoa   he  speaka  of  'his   old  Presbyterian   spirit,'  and 
reminds   his  correspondent   that   he  is  'a  child    of  the 
Covenanters.' 

His  childhood,  aa  we  have  already  noticed,  was  spent 
under  the  gentle  domination  of  '  Gummy,'  the  nurse.    Her 
religion   was  of   that   pronounced    and    impressive   type 
which  ia  sure  to  leave  a  very  deep  mark  upon  a  child.    It 
was  not  indeed  forced  upon  him,  for  he  adopted  it  with 
a    child's  whole-hearted    abandon,  and    literally    'had   a 
covenanting  childhood,'  as  he  tells  us.     Cummy's  private 
library  waa,  like  Stevenson's  childhood, '  eminently  religious.' 
Her  favourite  books  were  the  Bible,  the  Shorter  Cateehim, 
the  Ufe  of  Babert  Murray  MCheyne,    The   Canuronian's 
Dream,  The  Cloud  of  Witnesses,  and  the  writings  of  Wodrow 
and  Peden.     To  these  must  be  added  Patrick  Walker's 
Biographia  Prabyteriana  borrowed  from  his  father's  library. 
The  result  is  obvious  in  his  books.    No  reader  of  Edinburgh 
Pietureaque  Notes  is  likely  to  forget  that  long  and  grim 
quotation  from  the  last-named  author,  in  which  are  described 
the  gruesome  adventures  of  the  dishevelled  and  decayed 
fragments  of    five    martyrs;    the    table    in   Mr.  Schaw's 
aummer-house ;  the  'doubled  linen,'  and  the  'coffin  stufflt 
70 


THB    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

with  thtvingfc'  For  gbaitly  naliam,  miugled  with  human 
tenderneM  and  reverenoe,  the  psMage  stands  alone.  Had 
Stevenson  been  able  to  finish  the  tale  of  Heathmat,  we 
shoald  have  had  a  noteworthy  addition  to  onr  CovenanUng 
liteiature.  The  fragment  which  we  possess  is  one  of  the 
most  striking  of  his  conceptions.  Here  is  part  of  the 
description  of  a  conventicle : — 

'  On  the  far  side  the  ground  swelled  into  a  bare  heath,  black 
with  junipers,  and  spotted  with  the  presence  of  the  standing 
(tones  for  which  the  pUce  was  famous.  They  were  many  in 
that  part,  shapeless,  white  with  lichen— you  would  have  said 
with  age :  and  had  made  their  abode  there  for  untold  centuries, 
lines  first  the  heathens  shouted  for  their  installation.  The 
sneiento  had  hallowed  them  to  some  ill  religion,  and  their 
neighbourhood  had  long  been  avoided  by  the  prudent  before 
the  fall  of  day ;  but  of  late,  on  the  upspringing  of  new  require- 
ments, these  lonely  stones  on  the  moor  had  again  become  a 
place  of  assembly.  .  .  .  The  minister  spoke  from  a  knowe  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  ring,  and  poured  out  the  words  God  gave 
him  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  devils  of  yore.  ...  And  the 
congregation  sat  parUy  clustered  on  the  slope  below,  and  partly 
•mong  the  idolatrous  monoliths  and  on  the  turfy  soil  of  the 
ring  itself.  In  truth  the  situation  was  well  qualified  to  give  a 
zest  to  Christian  doctrines,  had  there  been  any  wanted.  But 
thew  congregations  assembled  under  conditions  at  once  so 
formidable  and  romantic  as  made  a  zealot  of  the  most  cold 
They  were  the  last  of  the  faithful;  God,  who  had  averted  his 
face  from  aU  other  countries  of  the  worid,  still  leaned  from 
heaven  to  observe,  with  swelling  sympathy,  the  doings  of  his 
moorland  remnant;  Christ  was  by  them  with  his  eternal 
wounds,  with  dropping  tears ;  the  Holy  Ghost  (never  perfectly 
realised  nor  firmly  adopted  by  Protestant  imaginations)  was 
dimly  supposed  to  be  in  the  heart  of  each  and  on  the  lips  of 
the  minister.  And  over  against  them  was  the  army  of  the 
hierarchies,  from  the  men  Charies  and  James  Stuart,  on  to  King 
I«wie  and  the  Emperor;  and  the  scariet  Pope  and  the  muckle 
black  devil  himself,  peering  out  the  red  mouth  of  hell  in  an 
Mstasy  of  hate  and  hope.  "One  pull  more!"  he  seemed  to 
cry ;  "  one  pull  more,  and  it 's  done.    There 's  only  Clydesdale 

71 


I    I 


THB    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

■ad  tlM  SitwMtry  ud  the  thno  BulumM  of  Ajr,  left  for 
God."  And  with  rash  mi  •ugntt  aawrtMco  of  powon  and 
priadpftUtiM  looking  on  at  the  Iwt  oonfliet  of  good  and  evil, 
it  WM  aearee  poenble  to  epure  a  thought  to  thoae  old,  infirn] 
debiie,  ab  agmio  derile  whoee  holy  pUoe  they  were  now 
▼iolnting.' 

It  is  difficult  to  read  that  paasage  without  an  almost  rebellioas 
bittaroees,  as  we  remember  for  the  thousandth  time  that  the 
hnd  that  wrote  it  will  write  no  more.     The  subtle  borrow- 
ing of  magie  power  from  ancient  paganism  for  the  new 
rdigion  which  had  already  much  glamour  of  its  own ;  the 
cloud  of  witneesee  so  daringly  yet  so  exactly  revealed ;  the 
depth  of  artistic  and  religious  sympathy  with  the  scene  and 
its  personages    these  are  indeed  the  effect  of  corenanting 
blood.    This  was  among  the  latest  of  his  works.    The  first 
of  them  relates  to  the  same  subject    The  Pentland  Jiiting, 
published  in  his  sixteenth  year,  is  an  essay  in  covenanting 
history.    It  is  a  carefully  encuted  piece  of  work,  showing 
but  little  trace  of  the  literary  skill  he  was  afterwards  to 
learn,  but  it  gives  abundant  proof  of  the  thoroughness  with 
which  he  was  even  then  acquainting  himself  with  history. 
Though  it  is  a  pamphlet  of  but  few  pages,  it  contains  refer- 
ences to  a  dozen  old  books  on  its  subject.    Stevenson  is 
not  blind  to  the  faults  either  of  the  martyrs  or  of  their 
historians.    Some  of  Patrick  Walker's  controversial  matter 
he  frankly  calls  insane,  and  the  word  is  hardly  too  strong  for 
such   wild  invective.     He  quotea,  in  ffeathereat,  one  of 
Walker's  coarsest  passages,  adding  that  no  doubt  it  was 
written  to  excuse  his  slaughter  of  Gordon,  'and  I  have 
never  heard  it  claimed  for  Walker  that  he  was  either  a  just 
witness  or  an  indulgent  judge.'    As  for  the  Covenanters 
themselves,  he  plainly  sees  that  something  of  what  they 
took  to  be  their  duty  was  a  misapprehension.    Yet  no  one 
has  more  justly  appreciated  their  heroism,  their  historic 
72 


THl    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

Ttloe  to  SooiUnd,  Mid  the  ratt  debt  which  SooUend  owei 
to  them  for  her  religion. 

SteTeoion's  books  are  literally  strewn  with  more  or  less 
oonsdoos  quotations  and  imitations  of  this  literature.  In 
his  l^ravm  Janet — one  of  the  most  powerful  of  his  essays 
in  the  ghastly— Mr.  Crockett  has  recognised  Walker's 
'old  singular  Christian  woman  in  the  Cummerhead,  named 
Jean  Brown.'  In  the  same  sketch  we  have  Mr.  Soulis  the 
minister,  'fu'  o'  bookleamin',  but  wi'  nae  leevin'  experience 
in  religion.'  like  other  ministers  of  his  time  Mr.  Soulis  bad 
been  at  the  coU^ ;  but  he '  would  have  learned  more  sitting  in 
a  peat-bog,  like  their  forebears  o'  the  persecution,  wi'  a  Bible 
under  their  oxter  an'  a  speerit  o'  prayer  in  their  heart.'  All 
this  is  tn  the  manner  bom,  and  there  is  much  more  of  the 
same  sort  The  sermon  in  ffeathereat  is  almost  a  transcrip- 
tion of  such  preaching  m  Patrick  Walker  reports :  '  In  Uiat 
day  ye  may  go  thirty  mile  and  not  hear  a  crawing  cock ; 
and  fifty  mile  and  not  get  a  light  to  your  pipe ;  and  an 
hundred  mile  and  not  see  a  smoking  house.  For  there  11  be 
naething  in  all  Scotland  but  deid  men's  banes  and  blackness, 
and  the  living  anger  of  the  Lord.  0,  where  to  find  a  bield 
—0  sirs,  where  to  find  a  bield  tnmx  the  wind  of  the 
Lord's  anger  ? '  The  two  phrases  for  whose  recurrence  one 
watches  in  reading  Patrick  Walker  are  '  left-hand  defections 
and  right-hand  extremes,'  and  'to  get  cleanly  oflf  the 
stage '  (the  metaphor  for  death),  a  curious  unexpected  allu- 
sion to  things  theatrical.  These  two  are  quoted  many 
times  by  Stevenson — or  misquotea,  for  he  sometimes  re- 
verses the  right  and  left  hands  of  the  former  quotation, 
and  the  latter  passes  through  several  varkitions.  He  rejoices 
in  the  epithet '  rank  conformity  '  as  a  name  for  his  pet  aver- 
sion, respectability;  he  speaks  of  'ctmcemed  and  serious 
old  folk  '—ft  combination  of  words  bearing  on  it  the  peculiar 
stamp  of  covrenanting  days.     On  its  hmd   and  ghactly 

fS 


IM 


if 


M,i 


THl    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    STIYINSON 

•Id.  th«  dd  litmtan  aqwdiOly  •ttneM  Urn.  Whw. 
di^  lot  inatenee,  coidd  If  Yutn  foand  the  taggwtion  for 
tlMNe  'ddlf  in  the  dMp  Mft  tlwt  wo«Id  yoke  on  a  com- 
manioMil ':  or  for  thai  other  idea  ia  the  Jfmy  Mm  of  tb« 
•••  ae  «a  mnekle  yett  to  heU '  ftnr  the  unprepared  aoalt  of 
mwinen;  or  for  the  prayer  in  the  UoMvrof  BtUkaUrat: 
'  0  Lord.  I  thank  Thee,  and  my  aon  tbanka  Thee,  for  thy 
muifold  great  merciei.  Let  ub  have  peace  for  a  little; 
defend  oa  from  the  era  man.  Smite  him,  0  Lord,  apon  the 
lying  mouth '  f  Snoh  worda.  and  the  wild  talk  of  the  lady  of 
Montroymont,  might  strike  the  aniniUated  aa  aavage  to  the 
point  of  blaaphemy.  Yet  they  are  modelled  with  the  moet 
detailed  fidelity  on  many  pasaagea  of  the  Bioffrapkia. 

So  deeply  waa  he  versed  in  the  booka  of  those  grim 
Scottiah  daya  that  they  affected  hia  atyle.  even  in  writings 
entirely  remote  fh)m  them.    Most  of  the  pecoliarities  in 
the  use  of  English,  which  are  apt  to  atrike  the  reader  a* 
affectationa,  are  to  be  traced  to  thia  aouroe.    In  the  kst 
year  of  hia  life  we  find  him  rererting  to  the  reading  of 
covenanting  books,  and  making  the  cnrioua  discovery  that 
hU  style  comes  from  them.    Nothing  could  be  more  evident 
to  those  who  read  him  with  some  of  the  said  books  at  their 
elbow.    'Scarce'  and  'exceeding'  do  duty  for  'scarcely' 
and  'exceedingly';  ' discomfortable '  for  'uncomfortable'; 
•  in '  for  •  into  •  ('  burst  in  a  flame,'  etc.  etc.).    Antique  words 
and  constructions  are  of  constant  recurrence:   'the  story 
leaves  to  tell  of  his  voyaging.'  'there  befell  a  strange 
coincidence.'  'to  prepare  his  angle  for  fishing.' and  soon. 
The  word  •  brisk '  is  one  of  many  that  strike  the  ear,  as 
you  read  his  work,  with  an  unusual  aptness  and  vivacity. 
Hero  it  is.  in  old  Patrick  Walker's  not  very  ingenuous 
account  of  the  killing   of  a  certain  trooper:  'out  of  a 
pocket-pistol,  rather  fit  for  diverting  a  boy  than  l.illing  such 
a  furious,  mad,  brisk  man.' 
74 


fill 


TBI   MAN    OV    BOOKS 

Afl  it  WM  to  PiUriek  Walkw  that  StoTwiaon  owtd  by  far 
tiM  tefgNt  of  his  dobto  uBong  writon  «f  th«  oomiuitiiif 
timas.  wt  tuj  doroto  a  little  f  ortbtr  spaoo  to  hia  bofora 
wt  lit  him  'go  olouify  off  the  itage.'  An  inniBflattd  man 
m  for  a*  collage  or  the  higher  learning  go^  he  ie  an  example 
r)f  that  natiTe  wit  for  whioh  Scotland  ia  jnatly  famona. 
Hi  identiied  himielf  with  the  coTcnanting  oatiae  in  thoee 
duk  timee  of  peneotttion  in  the  leventeenth  centary  whioh 
IciTi  pioTid  at  once  the  coetlieit  and  the  meet  enriching 
of  all  periods  oi  Scottish  hiatmy.  Under  examination 
eighteen  times,  he  waa  once  at  least  tortured  by  boot  and 
thombikins.  In  later  days  he  kept  'a  email  shop  for  the 
Mli  of  religions  traots,  et&,  at  Bristo  Port,  opposite  the 
Sodity  Gate'  of  Edinbnigh.  Hia  hooic,  at  one  time,  was 
near  at  hand— one  of  thoae  eerie  little  booses  in  the 
Candlemaker  Bow  whoee  lower  walls,  on  the  weet  side, 
battress  the  Qreyfriais  Chnrohyard.  Its  grass  grows  high 
aboTi  the  lerel  of  their  ground-floor  rooms ;  and  its  grayes 
are  overlooked,  with  an  altogether  indecent  familiarity, 
by  back  windows,  and  oreriinng  by  many-cokmred  gar- 
ments oa  washing-days.  At  a  later  time  he  employed 
himself  in  wandering  about  the  country  to  gather  up  the 
old  stories  which  are  printed  in  his  book.  Biographia 
FreAyUriana.  It  ia  a  curious  collection  of  the  livee  of  six 
of  the  leading  Covenanters  by  Walker,  with  a  life  of  Mr. 
Kenwick  added  by  the  Eev.  Alexander  Shields.  Its  contempt 
for  grammar  and  for  the  ordinary  canons  of  style,  its  mixed 
metaphors  and  long  strings  of  adjectives  unconnected  by 
any  conjunction,  only  serve  to  throw  out  in  more  impressive 
relief  its  extraordinary  qualities  of  dear  vision  and  of 
rugged  power.»      The  untrained  style  is  wonderfuUy  ex- 

'  Wklkw'i  part  of  it  hu  bMn  n-«ditad  of  UU  by  ]£r.  H«y  FbmiBg. 
nndM  the  tiki*  of  Six  Saintt  qf  the  Comnant,  with  s  fonwoid  by  Mr. 

VfTOOUtt. 

76 


if:, 


4^' 


-(  I' 


-n, 


MKlOCOrv  MBOtUnON  TBT  OMIT 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  3) 


1.0 


1.1 


|£  128 

tarn 

1^  1^ 

|Z2 

■IISI. 

y£ 

1 

li.8 

1.25  lu 


mi 

1 


L6 


ji 


/1PPLIED  IIVHGE    Ir 


1653  Coit  Main  StrMt 

RpchMtv.  Nmr  York        14609      US* 

(716)  482  -  0300  -  Plian* 

(716)  28a  -  S«8«  -  fa. 


li 


I 

f 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STEVENSON 

pressive,  and  there  is  a  refreshing  quaintness  about  the 
whole  book.  In  later  pages,  as  we  trace  the  characteristics 
of  Stevenson's  genius,  we  shall  have  to  note  many  a  point 
which  he  has  in  common  with  this  strange  volume. 
Especially  is  this  the  case  as  regards  the  gifts  of  vision  and 
vivacity.  In  respect  of  both  these  gifts,  it  is  well  to 
separate  Mr.  Shields's  H/e  of  Renvnck  from  Walker's  Lives. 
To  pass  from  the  latter  to  the  former  is  to  feel  a  sore 
decline.  In  itself,  Shields's  work  might  not  seem  so  bad ; 
but  after  Walker  it  is  dull  and  pedestrian  in  the  extreme. 

The  Biographia  is  redolent  of  its  times.    Its  variety  of 
language  and  expression  is  surprising,  yet  there  are  phrases 
upon  which  it  comes  back  incessantly,  and  they  are  what 
might  be  called  the  covenanting  vernacular.    We  read  of 
the  'singuUr  gift  of  prefacing,'  of  the  'heights,  lengths/ 
etc.  with  which  the  faithful  were  tauuted;  the  ministers' 
business  is  that  of  'preaching  up  all  duties  and  down  all 
sins,'  their  ideal  character  is  that  of '  godly,  zealous,  painfvd 
ministers  of  Christ.'    The  chureh,  for  want  of  'exercised' 
and  'self-denied  '  members,  is  a ' back-slidden  and  upsitten 
chureh,'  which  God  will  visit  with  'Moth-judgements  and 
Lion-judgements.'    Scripture  is  constantly  quoted,  and  is  so 
deeply  involved  in  the  writer's  thoufrht,  that  without  its  key 
much  of  the  book  would  be  only  very  partially  intelligible. 
Subtle  aUusions  to   Old   and   New  Testament  texts  are 
everywhere  embedded  in  the  sentences  and  epithets.    In 
depicting  the  injustice  and  cruelty  of  the  persecutions  the 
author  breaks  out  often  in  terror-striking  eloquence,  that 
knows  not  the  meaning  of  restraint.    Violence  and  death 
stalk  like  demons  through  many  pages,  in  a  succession  of 
pictures  whose  ghastly  realism  haunts  and  terrifies  the 
imagination.    'The  broth  was  hell-hot  in  those  days,'  he 
tells  us;  and  he  scornfully  speculates  about  the  unfaithful, 
'how  they  would  tremble  and  sweat,  if  they  were  in  the 
76 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

Orassmarket,  and  other  such  places,  going  up  the  Ladder, 
with  the  Bope  before  them,  and  the  Lad  with  the  Pyoted 
Goat  at  their  TaiL'  There  is  no  uucertainty  about  Walker ; 
he  knows  exactly  where  he  is.  His  path  is  narrow,  but  it 
runs  straight  forward.  He  has  as  hard  words  for  extremists 
like  Gibb  as  he  has  for  compliers  like  Wodiow.  He  has 
an  unconcealed  aversion  to  the  '  Englishes.'  When  hard 
words  are  desired,  he  has  them  at  command,  and  floods  of 
personalities  that  Billingsgate  would  pause  to  listen  to 
pour  themselves  out  upon  his  enemies.  Even  in  his  milder 
vein  he  protests  against  the  'gasping  and  gollering  of 
preacbeis '  and  their  '  wisned,  warsh,  coldrife,  formal 
sermons.'  Nor  is  there  lack  of  sardonic  humour — the 
native  thistle  in  the  language  of  Scotland.  Samson  is '  a 
rackle-handed  saint,'  and  there  are  some  like  him  stilL 
Their  enemies  demanded  prayer  for  the  king,  and  he  con- 
cedes the  prayer  '  that  the  Lord  would  make  him  what  he 
should  be,  or  take  him  away  and  give  them  better.'  Most 
sardonic  of  all  is  his  account  of  the  death  of  the  soldier  he 
is  supposed  to  have  shot:  'Thus  he  was  4  miles  from 
Lanark  and  near  a  mile  from  his  Comrade,  seeking  his  own 
death,  and  got  it.' 

His  relations  with  the  unseen  world  give  the  impression 
of  much  uncanny  intercourse  with  the  Devil,  and  a  stem 
familiarity  with  God.  There  is  a  firm  belief  in  magic  of 
both  kinds,  white  and  black.  We  read  of  men  praying  all 
night  long  upon  the  moors  with  a  light  shining  round  about 
them,  and  of  not  a  little  second-sight  and  witchcraft  Field 
conventicles  are  'the  Devil's  eyesore.'  But  God  is  near 
also;  there  are  men  who  in  their  childhood  'fell  in  love 
with  the  ways  of  God,'  and  '  it  is  praying  folk  that  will  win 
through  the  storm.'  Yet  the  man  and  his  book  are  human, 
with  a  charming  freshness  that  appeals  to  us  in  many  ways. 
That  well-worn  stage  metaphor,  for  instance — how  fresh  it 

77 


Ifl 


>  1 

-it 


d 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.   STEVENSON 

is  I    'To  get  off  the  stage,'  as  a  metophor  for  death,  tells  of 
a  time  when  weaiy  actors  watched  for  the  end  of  heavy 
parts.    Yet  the  figure  becomes  quite  lightsome  when  it  has 
thoroughly  established  itself.     Not  only  is  the  death  of 
martyrs  so  described,  but  even  the  Apobfcl^^s  have  'gone 
off  the  stage '  in  their  day.    It  actually  ceases  to  be  a  figure, 
as  the  mixed  metaphors  show  when  we  read  of  'worthy 
gleanings '  which  are '  for  the  most  part  off  the  stage ' ;  and 
Peden  breaks  out  'into  a  Rapture  about  our  Martyrs  siying 
they  were  going  off  the  Stage  with  fresh  Gales  and  full  Sails 
and  now  they  are  all  glancing  with  Glory.'    The  nautical 
allusion  is  frequent.    Mr.  M'Ward  prays  'with  mo.^  than 
ordmary  Gale  upon  his  Spirit  '-a  phrase,  by  the  way,  which 
reappears  unchanged  in  Stevenson's  T/u  Scotsman  s  Hetum 
from  Jhroad.     Another  obvious  link  with  Stevenson  i. 
Walkers  oft-repeated  aspiration  to  'steir  a  steddy  course- 
Like  Stevenson,  too.  his  senses  are  strong  within  hiu. 
especially  the  sense  of  vision.    We  are  told  of  'a  merciful 
Cast  of  Free  Grace.'  at  the  Kirk  of  Shotts,  which  'perfumed 
and  gave  a  scent  to  Clydesdale.'   Again  we  find  Compliance 
painted  with  the  Vermilion  of  Prudence  and  Peace';  and 
yet  ,^in  we  catch  glints  of 'the  Light  of  sun-blink  days.' 
The  human  nature  of  the  book  appeai-s  plainly  in  those 
deeper  and  more  affecting  passages  which  thrill  with  an  in- 
finite pity  for  the  'precious  dear  blood.'  and  the  lads  cold 
upon  the  hills;  and  for  those  who.  like  Richard  Car  eron's 
father  are  kissing  the  bloody  head  and  severed  hands  of 
their  dearest    It  is  perhaps  this,  more  than  aU  else  about 
It.  that  explains  Mr.  Crockett's  confession  'that  to-day 
certem  oidences  of  honest  Patrick's  speech  touch  my  heart 
like  nothing  else  in  the  world  save  the  memory  of  a 
mother's  voice  heard  praying  at  a  child's  bedside  in  the 
night     In  aU  this  of  Patrick  Walker's  there  is  a  wonderful 
affinity  with  the  genius  of  Stevenson.    If  he  has  occupied 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

a  large  portion  of  this  chapter,  it  is  because  it  would  S'jem 
that  he,  more  than  any  other  writer,  hai  influenced  both 
the  style  and  the  thought  of  the  other  'child  of  the 
Covenant.' 

Behind  all  a  Scotsman's  ineipories  of  the  Covenanters  there 
stands,  large  and  masterful,  the  older  image  of  John  Knox. 
As  a  living  influence  upon  Stevenson's  thought,  it  may  be 
questiojed  whether  Knox  can  be  said  to  have  counted  for 
very  much;  yet  we  everywhere  come  upon  indications  of 
the  profound  impression  which  the  great  statesman  and 
churchman  had  made  upon  his  imagination.    With  the 
audacity  of  youth  he  essayed  the  task  of  humanising  his 
memory  in  John  Knox  and  Ma  delations  to  Women.    Knox, 
from  Stevenson's  point  of  view,  lay  'dead  and  buried  in  the 
works  of  the  learned  and  unreadable  M'Crie.'    His  eflfort  to 
'break  the  tomb,  and  bring  him  forth,  alive  again  and 
breeching,  in  a  human  book,'  was  not  altogether  successful, 
nor  'VM  it  tvea  a  pleasant  failure.    'With  the  best  inten- 
tions in  the  world,'  he  himself  confesses, '  I  have  only  added 
two  more  flagstones.'    He  never  again  attempted  the  subject, 
but  the  reformer  often  looks  down  on  us,  through  a  window 
as  it  were,  in  passing  allusions  which  show  him  unforgotten 
by  the  writer.    The  happiest  of  his  allusions  to  Knox  is 
in  Edinburgh  Picturesque  Notes:  'In  the  Parliament  Close, 
trodden  daily  underfoot  by  advocates,  two  letters  and  a  date 
mark  the  resting-place  of  the  man  who  made  Scotland  over 
again  in  his  own  image,  the  indefatigable,  undissuada'.le 
John  Knox.    He  sleeps  within  call  of  the  church  that  so 
of       jchoed  to  his  preaching.    Hard  by  the  reformer,  a 
bandy-legged  and  garlanded  Charles  Second,  made  of  lead, 
bestrides  a  tun-bellied  charger.    The  King  has  his  back 
turned,  and,  as  you  look,  seems  to  be  trotting  clumsily 
away  from  such  a  dangerous  neighbour.    Often,  for  hours 
together,  these  two  will  be  alone  in  the  Close,  for  it  lies  out 

79 


HI 


Ill 


•l 


THE    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    STBYBNSON 

of  the  way  of  all  but  legal  traffic'  The  man  who  wrote 
these  words  had  surely  'sat  under '  the  great  preacher,  as 
au  occasional  hearer  at  least. 

Two  other  religious  writers  of  the  early  times  must  be 
included  among  the  master-influences  of  Stevenson's  life. 
William  Peun  was  a  late  acquaintance.  Stevenson  found 
a  copy  of  the  FruUa  of  Soliivde^  on  a  San  Francisco 
bookstall  when,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  he  was  passing 
through  a  crisis.  The  book  moved  him  to  the  deptlis.  It 
was  'carried  in  my  pocket  all  aoout  the  San  Francisco 
streets,  read  in  street-cars,  and  ferry-boats,  when  I  was  sick 
unto  death,  and  found  in  all  times  and  places  a  peaceful 
and  sweet  companion.  .  .  .  there  is  not  the  man  living— 
uo,  nor  recently  dead — that  could  put,  with  so  lovely  a 
spirit,  so  much  honest,  kind  wisdom  into  words.' 

Penn's  note  is  one  of  brisk  and  yet  quiet  optimism.  His 
letters  to  his  wife  and  family  are  full  of  the  alert  repose 
of  the  man  who  knows  his  work  and  has  found  his  place 
in  life.  He  is  'well,  diligent,  and  successful.'  'Keep  thy 
place,'  he  advises, '  I  am  in  mine.'  He  warns  them  against 
letting  their  usefulness  be  scattered  by  '  the  snare  of  doing 
good  to  everybody,'  and  counsels  them  to  'see  with  their 
own  eyes,  not  another's.'  The  Fruita  of  Solitude  is  a  collec- 
tion, in  two  parts,  of  eight  hundred  and  fifty-five  reflections 
and  maxims  upon  all  sorts  of  practical  subjects.  The  point 
of  view  is  a  bright  and  healthy  one,  calm  in  its  outlook, 
energetic  in  its  purpose.  The  maxims  are  natural  and  un- 
laboured. They  often  light  up  their  subjects  with  a  sudden 
flame  that  seems  to  crackle  as  you  read.  There  are  endless 
points  of  contact  with  Stevenson  in  the  book,  but  a  few  of 
the  maxims,  selected  almost  at  random,  must  suffice  for 

'  The  Frvitt  of  Solitude  ha*  been  re-edited,  and  pnblished  in  a  charm- 
ing little  volume,  by  Mr.  Edmund  Goaae,  with  an  introduction  and  a 
rortrait. 

80 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

illostratioii:  'If  we  would  amend  the  World,  we  should 
mend  Our  selves.'  'As  Puppets  are  to  Men,  and  Babies  to 
GMldren,  so  is  Man's  Workmanship  to  God's.  We  are  the 
Picture,  he  the  Seality.'  '  Where  Pight  or  Betigion  giyes  a 
Call,  a  Neuter  must  be  a  Coward  or  an  Hypocrite'  ' It  is  a 
Preposterous  thing,  that  Men  can  venture  their  Souls  where 
they  will  not  venture  their  Money:  For  they  will  take 
their  Religion  upon  trust,  but  not  trust  a  Synod  about  the 
Goodness  of  Half  a  Crown.'  '  No  religion  is  better  than  an 
Unnatural  One.'  'Hardly  any  Thing  is  given  us  for  our 
Sdvts,  but  the  Fublick  may  claim  a  Share  with  us.  But  of 
all  we  call  ours,  we  are  moU  accountable  to  God  and  the 
Publick  for  our  Estates :  In  this  we  are  but  Stewards  and 
to  Hard  up  all  to  ourselves  is  great  Injustice  as  well  as 
Ingratitude.'  .  .  .  'those  Higher  Banks  of  Men  are  but  the 
Trmtets  of  Heaven  for  the  Benefit  of  lesser  Mortals.  .  .  . 
And  'tis  certain,  where  that  Use  is  not  made  of  the  Bounties 
of  Providence,  they  are  ImbexxU'd  and  Wasted.'  Lovers  of 
Stevenson  will  recognise  familiar  sentiments  and  turns 
of  phrase  in  all  of  these ;  and  many  more  could  be  quoted. 

'Lastly,'  he  tells  us  in  his  list  of  books  which  had  Influ- 
enced him, '  I  must  name  the  Piigrim's  Progress,  a  book  that 
breathes  of  every  beautiful  and  valuable  emotion.'  It  was 
the  look  in  all  English  literature  which  he  knew  best,  and 
to  which  he  oftenest  alluded.  This  is  probably  rather  the 
rula  than  the  exception  in  Christian  homes  in  Scotland. 
One  remembers  the  inimitable  scene  in  Mr.  Barrie's  Margaret 
Ogilvy,  where  the  child  has  presumed  to  take  liberties  with 
the  quasi-sacred  volume,  to  the  extent  of  constructing  a 
Slough  of  Despond  in  the  garden ;  the  seriousness  of  the 
affair  in  the  mother's  eyes ;  and  the  adventurous  infant 
regarding  himself  for  some  days  as  a  'dark  character' in 
consequence.  Into  Stevenson's  childhood  also  it  entered, 
for  this  was  one  of  the  nurse's  favourites ;  and  his  mother, 

F  81 


v: 


THB    FAITH    oF   R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

unlike  Barrie's,  went  so  far  as  to  allow  him  to  retain  his 
playthings  of  a  Sunday, '  when  a  pack  was  sewn  on  to  the 
back  of  one  of  the  wooden  figures,  and  I  had  then  duly 
promised  to  play  at  nothing  but  "Pilgrim's  Progress.'" 
One  of  the  sweetest  impressions  in  So$a  Quo  Loeorum  is 
that  of  the  building  up  of  his  childish  picture  of  the 
Twenty-Third  Psalm,  where  the  'foes,'  in  whose  presence 
the  table  is  furnished,  are  supplied  by  the  imps — surely  the 
neatest  little  demons  in  art — in  the  pictures  of  his  copy  of 
the  allegory,  drawn  by  Miss  Eunice  Bagster. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  accidental  circumstance  of  a  book 
which  had  come  early  into  his  hands  that  explains  his  love 
for  Bunyan.  The  two  had  much  in  common.  In  each  there 
was  the  strain  of  Puritanism,  tempered  by  a  very  pagan 
element  indeed;  though  the  proportions  of  the  blend  and 
the  particular  form  of  its  elements  are  widely  different 
Both  delighted  in  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  and  the  masculine 
and  heroic  verses  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow$  might  have  been 
sung  by  Oreatheart  himself.  Both  were  dreamers,  and  men 
of  constructive  and  vivid  imagination.  Both  had,  above  all 
else  that  was  common  to  them,  the  instinct  of  travel  and 
the  delight  in  allegory  and  symbolic  double  meaning. 

The  instinct  of  travel  falls  to  be  considered  more  fully  in 
a  later  chapter.  All  that  concerns  us  here  is  the  connec- 
tion which  it  establishes  between  the  two  writers.  In  their 
treatment  of  natural  scenery,  the  two  are  far  apart.  John 
Bunyan  has  no  sense  of  scenery  properly  so  called.  He  will 
tell  you  of  a  meadow  'curiously  diversified  with  lilies'— a 
pre-Eaphselite  touch  that  points  back  to  the  romances  of 
an  older  day — but  in  the  main  his  scenery  is  estimated, 
like  Dante's,  solely  by  its  ease  or  difllculty  for  the  foot 
Stevenson's  view  of  Nature  is  of  course  entirely  different 
Thomson,  and  Gray,  and  Wordsworth  had  lived  between 
Bunyan's  time  and  his.  He  delights  in  nature— in  the  trees 
82 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

of  the  forest  and  the  large  open  spaces  of  the  plain,  in  the 
grass  at  his  feet  and  in  the  mountoins  blue  in  the  distance. 
But  in   regard  to  the  human  life  of  the  road,  they  are 
brothers.    Bunyan's  road  is  crowded  with  moTing  figures— 
indeed,  it  exUts  solely  for  their  procession  and  adventure. 
Stevenson's  eye  for  Nature  does  not  debar  him  from  the  love 
and  desire  for  fellow-travellers :  'As  I  felt  myself  on  the 
road  at  last,'  he  tells  us  in  his  Esaay  on  Roads,  'I  was  so 
pleased  at  my  own  happiness  that  I  could  let  none  past  me 
till  I  had  taken  them  into  my  confidence.    I  asked  my  way 
from  every  one,  and  took  good  care  to  let  them  all  know, 
before  they  left  me,  what  my  object  was,  and  how  many 
years  since  my  last  visit'     This  fact,  that  their  deHghts 
are  with  the  sons  of  men,  links  the  two  together.    Yet  in 
how  dilTerent  a  fasliion  do  they  journey !    Bunyan's  road  is 
the  solemn  path  of  duty ;  the  interest  of  its  feUow-occupants 
is  the  tragic  interest  of  tempters,  or  helpers,  or  persons 
needing  help  for  their  souls  that  may  be  saved  or  lost. 
Stevenson  is  at  times  wholly  irresponsible.    He  journeys  in 
•the  most  enviable  of  all  humours.'  that  in  which  a  person 
'mar     -*:/ .  his  every  whim  and  fancy  without  a  pang  of 
rcpi  •  science  or  the  least  jostle  to  his  self-respect* 

So,    '.  M  would  appear.    But  there  is  another  side 

to  tu  ^,ch  we  shall  consider  by  and  by,  and  which 
brings  the  two  traveUers  into  a  still  deeper  sympa%  of 
solemn  responsibility  and  passionate  helpfulness  for  fellow- 
wayfarers. 

Stevenson's  works  are  full  of  references  to  and  quota- 
tions from  the  great  allegory  with  which  his  mind  had  been 
familiarised  in  childhood.  In  relating  a  South-Sea  graveyard 
story  of  the  Paumotus— a  story  whose  savage  realism  touches 
the  very  bottom  limit  of  the  maedbre^h%  at  once  recalls  what 
Christian  saw  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  The  forest  of 
Fontainebleau  is  described  in  terms  of  the  Land  of  Beulah. 

83 


n 

■  if 


ii 


m 


B*fi 


i^^ 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STITBNSON 

with '  that  subtle  aomething,  that  quality  of  the  air.  that 
emanation  ftrom  the  old  treei,  that  eo  wonderfnlly  ehaogn 
and  lenewi  a  weary  spirit'  In  estimating  the  character  of 
Boms, '  to  call  him  bad,  with  a  self-righteons  chnokle,  is  to 
be  talking  in  one's  sleep  with  Heedless  and  Too-bold  in  the 
arbonr.'  When  his  own  life  has  taken  him  into  the  thirtie*, 
and  its  great  work  is  not  yet  done  or  even  conceived, '  as  one 
goes  on  the  wood  seems  to  thicken,  the  footpath  to  narrow, 
and  the  House  Beautiful  on  the  hill's  summit  to  draw 
f^her  and  further  away.' 

These  are  but  specimens  to  which  many  more  might  be 
added.  Another  curious  reminiscence  of  Bunyan  is  to  be 
seen  in  the  im'^ations  which  here  and  there  he  gives  us. 
Sometimes  this  is  but  exuberant  nonsense,  as  in  that  notable 
signature  to  a  letter :  '  I  am,  yours, 

Mr.  Muddler. 

Mr.  Addlehead. 

Mr.  Wandering  Butterwits. 

Mr.  Shiftless  Inconsistency. 

Sir  Indecision  Contentment.' 
Again,  in  a  letter  to  his  parents,  he  talks  of  resignatic-^ 
under  the  similitude  of  a  garden — 'John,  do  you  see  that 
bed  of  resignation?'  etc.  etc.,  and  signs  at  the  foot  'John 
Bunyan.'  That  is  in  a  more  serious  vein,  and  when  we 
come  to  the  third  example  we  find  him  in  no  mood  for 
anything  but  dead  earnest — ^'The  mean  man  doubted 
Greatheart  was  deceived.  "Very  well,"  said  Greatheart' 
A  longer  and  even  more  clever  imitation  may  be  found  in 
An  Apology /or  ItUera. 

Two  more  allusions  are  necessary  to  complete  our  study  of 
his  connection  with  Bunyan.  First,  there  is  the  very  clever 
frontispiece  to  Travels  toith  a  Donkey,  etched  by  Walter 
Crane,  surely  with  Stevenson's  suggestion.  It  is  entirely  in 
the  manner  of  those  old-fashioned  perspective  views  of  the 
84 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

Pilffrim'i  Frogma,  half  pictare  and  half  map,  in  which  the 
distaaew  are  foreahortened,  and  in  the  coarse  of  an  upward 
itg-ngging  traok,  we  are  presented  with  small  pictures  of 
the  main  events  of  the  tale  while  the  ' ingenious  dreamer' 
lies  large  and  oonspicnoufc  across  the  foot  of  the  page. 
Here,  in  exactly  that  manner,  is  the  ingenious  dreamer,  in 
the  form  of  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson,  awake  and  smoking, 
though  still  enveloped  for  the  most  part  in  hia  sleeping- 
bsg.  Modestine,  the  donkey,  is  at  hand,  and  above  stretches 
the  zig-sag  with  the  pictured  events.  In  the  distance,  the 
knapsack  has  become  indistinguishable  from  Christian's 
burden  as  seen  in  the  old  prints.  The  final  goal  and  mean- 
iog  of  the  journey  is  signified  by  the  silhouette  at  the 
extreme  summit,  of  the  Pilgrim  dear  against  a  rising  sun. 

The  etching  shows  how  congenial  to  his  imagination  had 
been  the  picturesque  aspect  of  the  famous  allegory,  and  this 
is  borne  out  by  the  second  matter  to  which  we  must  refer 
—the  paper  on  Bagater't  Pilgrim's  Progrut.    That  curious 
edition,  many  of  whose  woodcuts  are  familiar  in  various 
modem  reprints,  was  to  an  older  generation  of  Scottish 
boys,  inseparabi      i  imagination  from  the  thought  of  the 
book.    Those  o     j  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  possess  a 
copy  of  it  in  childhood,  can  never  be  satisfied  with  any 
other  pictures.    David  Scott's  illustrations  are  no  doubt 
wonderful  works  of  art ;  Bennett's  are  drawn  from  the  life  of 
London  Streets.    But  they  are  not  '  The  Pilgrim '  iu  the 
same  way  that  these  quaint  little  wood-cuts  of  an  inch 
square  were  and  will  be  to  the  end.     So,  at  least,  this 
reader  felt.     Tlie    pictures  fascinated    him,  and  in   the 
coorso  of  his  appreciat:  e  discussion  of  them  he  was  led 
to  write  about  the  book  also — a  very  living  and  admir- 
able piece  of  criticism.     As  luight  be  expected  of  one 
who  was  himself  fond  of  using  similitudes,  the  interest 
centres   in   a    discussion    of    Buuyan's    management   of 

85 


•i 


r  • 


1. 1 


THl    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STIYBNBON 

•Uagoiy.     Bat  appreouiaon  of  the  deeper  qualities  of 
the  book  bredci  through  iu  numy  pesMgee  of  the  moat 
Titd      jd    ijmpethetio    sort.     The    picturee   le«l   him 
bwk  to  hie  favourite  charaoten— Mr.  Valiant-for-Truth 
giring  'my  sword  to  him  that  shall  succeed  me  in  m; 
pilgrimage,  and  my  courage  and  $kitt  to  him  that  can  get  it' ; 
Oreatheart,  'a  stout,  honest,  big-busted  ancient,  adjusting 
his  shoulder-belts,  twirling    his   long  moustachee  as   he 
speaks.'    His  estimate  of  Bunyan  is  well  worth  record- 
ing :— '  he  feared  nothing,  and  said  anything ;  and  he  waa 
greatly  served  in  this  by  a  certain  rusUc  privUege  of  bii 
style,  which,  like  the  Ulk  of  strong,  uneducated  men,  wheu 
it  loes  not  impmss  by  its  force,  still  charms  by  its  sirapli- 
city.    The  mere  story  and  the  allegorical  design  enjoyed 
perhaps  his  equal  favour.    He  believed  in  both  with  an 
energy  of  faith  that  was  capable  of  moving  mountaina.' 
'  In  every  page  the  book  is  stamped  with  the  same  energy 
of  vision  and  the  same  energy  of  belief.  .  .  .  Trivial  talk 
over  a  meal,  the  dying  words  of  heroes  ...  all  have  been 
imagined  with  the  same  clearness,  all  written  of  with  equal 
gusto  and  precision,  all  created  in  that  same  mixed  element, 
of  simplicity  that  is  almost  comical,  and  art  that,  for  ita 
purpose,  is  faultless.' 

The  one  point  in  which  he  adversely  criticises  the 
pictures  is  that  of  their  religious  significance,  in  which  the 
text  outstrips  its  illustrations.  The '  human-hearted  piety  oi 
Bunyan  touches  and  ennobles,  convinces,  accuses  the  reader ' 
.  .  .  '  to  feel  the  contr  '  essential  goodness,  to  be  made  in 
love  with  piety,  the  book  must  be  read,  and  not  the  priuta 
examined.'  Yet  he  closes  with  a  last  word  of  gratitude  for 
♦he  pictures,  which  since  his  childhood  have  shown  him 
•every  turn  and  town  along  the  road  to  the  Celestial  City, 
and  that  bright  place  itself,  seen  as  to  a  stave  of  music, 
shining  afar  off  upon  the  hill-top,  the  candle  of  the  world.' 
86 


f! 


THE    MAM    OV    BOOKS 

Thera  ut  Mrenl  othtr  nligioua  book*  wluch  mora  or 
laM  influenoed  hU  childhood,  and  o(  which  tnoM  appear 
tbroaghout  his  later  work.  Hit  earliest  memories  wera  of 
'nursery  rhymes,  the  Bible,  and  Mr.  M'Cheyne.'  The  last 
of  these,  a  name  honourad  among  many  of  the  religions 
people  of  Scotland  with  a  veneration  accorded  only  to  one 
or  two  writers  oateide  the  sacred  volume,  was  a  favourite  of 
\liaon  Cnimingham's.  Some  of  M'Cheyne's  verses,  and  still 
more  of  his  ardent  spirit,  remained  with  Stevenson  through 
life.  Of  other  writers  of  a  similar  school,  traces  an  to  be 
found.  Among  the  last  wordn  c  '  Admiral  Outnea  ara '  But 
for  the  grace  of  Ood,  then  Ujs  John  Oaunt' — a  famous 
laying  of  John  Bradford's,  adopted  with  only  the  change  of 
name,  and  the  substitution  of  'lies'  for  'goes.'  Bradford 
ia  said  to  have  used  the  words  on  seeing  a  criminal  passing 
to  the  gallows. 

But  it  is  his  close  acquaintance  with  the  language  of  the 
Bible  which  has  most  significance  for  ns.  He  was  literally 
steeped  in  ite  thought  and  sentiment,  for  his  nurse  read  it 
through  to  him  several  times,  and  miut  hare  reud  somr 
parts  of  it  until  he  knew  them  by  heart  The  matchlesi 
powir  and  beauty  of  its  language  in  the  Authorised  Version 
have  so  permeated  our  literature,  that  it  would  le  pre- 
carious to  judge,  by  collected  reference  •,  <^  to  it^  direct 
effect  on  any  author.  Yet  Stevenson  q  :»  and  alludes 
to  it  with  a  frequency,  an  aptness,  and  a  sympathy,  that 
bear  witness  to  much  first-band  knowledge.  Nothing 
could  surpass  the  appositeness  and  power  with  which  the 
gambling  quarrel  at  Mother  Clarke's  in  Deacon  Drodie  is 
interrupted  by  the  Psalm  without : 

'  Lord,  who  shall  stand,  if  Thon,  0  Lord, 

Should'at  mark  iniquity  ? 
But  yet  with  thee  forgiyenns  is, 
That  feared  thon  mayest  be.' 

87 


H 


THE    PAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVENSON 

—it  needs  a  covenanting  childhood,  and   the  Wt  of  a 
certain  old  tune  in  the  minor  key,  to  feel  the  full  force  of 
that    The  strongest  praise  he  can  find  for  Walt  Whitman 
is  that  •  he  has  sajings  that  come  home  to  one  like  the 
Bible.'     It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  gather  together 
the  borrowings  from  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  which 
are  to  be  found  in  Stevenson's  books.    Caleb  and  Joshua, 
John  the  Baptist  and  Peter  the  Apostle  are  there,  and 
countless  others,  each  in  character  and  drawn  from  the  life. 
Miss  Simpson  has  told  us  that  Isaiah  Iviii.  was  his  especial 
chapter,  with  its  repudiation  of  cant  and  its  demand  for 
self-denying  beneficence.     Many  of  the  words  of  Christ, 
which  carry  out  to  fuller  completeness  the  teaching  of  the 
Prophet,  might  be  quoted  from  his  works. 

It  is  true  that  his  dealing  with  the  Scriptures  was  un- 
scientific,  and  that  that  fact  led  to  misconceptiona    With 
the  exception  of  a  few  pkyful  allusions  in  his  verses, 
Stevenson  makes  hardly  any  reference  to  the  contemporary 
struggle  between  the  newer  and  the  more  traditional  forms 
of  Christian  thought.    Not  only  in  regard  to  the  Bible,  but 
all  along  the  line  of  faith,  there  has  been  of  late  years  a 
change  in  form  of  expression  and  in  point  of  view.    Funda- 
mentally the  two  are  at  one,  and  their  differences  are  but 
differences  in  the  aspects  of  the  same  essential  truth.    The 
new  phase  is  not  It^ss  spiritual  than  the  old,  though  it  is 
less  mystical;   it  is  as  loyal   to  Christ  and  His  work, 
although  it  does  not  profess  the  same  competence  to  define 
these.     It  is  in  closer  touch  with  human  nature  and  the 
general  life  of  man,  and  it  prefers  the  psychological  and 
ethical  standpoint  to  that  of  metaphysical  theology.    It  is 
no  disparagement  or  want  of  reverence  for  the  past,  to  hold 
that  the  present  may  have  other  needs.    The  fact  is  patent 
that  many  earnest  people  are  finding  it  impossible  to-day  to 
ignore  certain  difficulties  from  which  the  traditional  pre- 
88 


.  I 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

MDtation  of  Christianity  affords  them  no  relief.  To  many 
of  these,  the  newer  presentation  appears  the  truer  one.  For 
some  it  is  the  only  way ;  and  it  is  keeping  open  the  door  of 
faith  to-day,  for  a  large  and  growing  number  of  thoughtful 
men  and  women,  who  but  for  this  would  be  absolutely 
shut  out  from  Christian  belief. 

The  case  of  Stevenson  illustrates,  as  aptly  as  could  be 
imagined,  the  need  for  such  help  as  these  newer  methods 
seek  to  give.  On  the  one  hand,  he  was  unprotected 
against  the  destructive  tendencies  of  sceptical  criticism, 
and  unable  to  distinguish  between  accredited  results  and 
fanciful  guesses.  Not  only  was  he  prepared  to  question 
the  Old  Testament  account  of  picturesque  historical  figures 
like  Ahab  and  Jezebel ;  he  found  the  New  Testament  also 
•an  unsettling  book.'  In  one  of  the  Vailima  Letters,  he 
discusses  Eenan's  •  L'Ant^christ.' *  With  characteristic 
instinct  for  fact,  he  perceives  it  to  be  '  so  little  like  history, 
that  one  almost  blames  oneself  for  wasting  time.'  Yet,  a  few 
lines  further  on,  we  find  'the  Apostle  John  rather  dis- 
credited,' and  the  impossible  and  exploded  anti-Pauline 
theory  of  the  Apocalypse  accepted  as  entirely  obvious. 

With  unbounded  hospitality  for  picturesque  theories,  he 
combines,  in  other  directions,  an  equally  extreme  insistence 
upon  the  letter  of  the  text.  To  this  he  seems  to  have 
been  driven  by  some  time-serving  interpreters.  He  is 
never  more  scornful  than  when,  in  Lay  Morals,  he  de- 
scribes the  toning  down  of  apparently  hard  scriptures  by 
'the  tender  Greatheart  of  the  parish' — 'All  was  plain. 
The  Bible  as  usual  meant  nothing  in  particular;  it  was 
merely  an  obscure  and  figurative  copy-book.'  It  was  in 
rebellion  against  the  patent  insincerity  of  such  preaching 
and  the  type  of  religion  which  it  fostered,  that  Stevenson 

' '  L'AnMchriit '  ia  the  fonrth  diviaioii  of  Reiun'«  Hittoire  dkt  Origintt 
dtt  Chri$tiani»nu. 

89 


^11 


'FN 

4l 


■'L'f 


if 


m 


M 


THE    FAITH    oF    R.    L.    STBVENSON 

adopted  a  severe  literalism  in  his  interpretotion  of  Christ's 
words.    This  is  bat  'the  right-hand  extreme'  in  exchange 
for  'the  left-hand  defection.'    Pressing  the  demands  of  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  and  other  sajings  of  Jesus,  into  their 
crudest  and  most  untempered  absoluteness,  he  confronts 
himself  and  the  world  with  a  conception  of  Christ  like 
that  of  Tolstoi.     Severe  and  inhuman,  the  Christ  of  Lay 
Morals  undoubtedly  is  'too  hard  on  man.'     Judged  by 
such  a   standard,   ordinary   Christianity  truly  'disagrees 
with  Christ,'  and  calls  by  His  name  a  system  He  would 
not  have  owned.     That  system  Stevenson  for  the  time 
rejects  in  favour  of  the  sterner  view.    Little  is  gained  by 
the  exchange,  for  the  precepts  are  confessedly  so  sweeping 
aa  to  make  obedience  a  sheer  impossibility  for  human 
nature.    Yet  in  some  of  his  other  writings  a  totally  dififerent 
aspect  is  presented.     Thus,  in  the  kindness,  generosity, 
readiness  to  give  and  to  forgive,  which  are  seen  in  some 
of  the  South   Sea  Islanders,  he  finds  'a  miud  far  liker 
Christ's  than  any  of  the  races  of  Europe.'    If  we  were  to  be 
so  foolish  as  to  attempt  the  piecing  of  these  fragmentary 
aspects  together,  the  result  would  be  an  incoherent  con- 
ception of  the  Divine  Man,  at  once  more  hard  and  more 
soft  than  that  of  Christendom. 

It  is  necessary  here  i^in  to  remind  the  reader  that  in 
the  case  of  a  man  like  Stevenson  his  formal  account  of  his 
beliefs  will  ever  be  an  under-statement  of  the  actual  faith 
from  which  he  is  working.  It  would  seem  as  if  for  such 
men,  Christ  is  best  seen  in  glimpses—'  by  a  receding  light,' 
as  Browning  used  to  say.  Following  Him  thus,  they  are 
very  sure  of  Him;  but  when  they  seek  to  look  upon  Him 
with  the  plain,  direct  gaze  that  they  are  accustomed  to 
bend  on  men  and  things,  they  lose  the  wonder  and 
the  fascination,  and  their  attempt  at  description  gives  you 
but  a  harsh  or  diaproportioned  figure.  Such  a  figure  does 
90 


i\< 


THE    MAN    OF    BOOKS 

not  aconrately  represent  the  Christ  either  of  history  or  of 
experience.  The  great  and  difficult  necessity  here  is 
obvioosly  to  nuderstaud  Christ,  and  all  who  'disagree 
with  Him'  must  first  have  misunderstood.  But  Christ 
was  a  poet,  and  no  man  can  understand  Him  whose 
method  is  that  of  mere  logical  prose.  At  every  point 
Christ's  inezpressibleness  in  formulae  is  manifest  His 
words  elude  the  literaUst,  and  strike  home  with  a  far 
subtler  and  more  penetrating  stroke  than  anything  he  can 
understand.  It  is  this  direct  and  instinctive  spiritual 
appeal,  this  fact  that  Christ's  words  are  charged  with  so 
convincing  and  yet  indefinable  a  quality,  that  makes  men 
still  confess  that '  never  man  spake  like  this  man.'  It  is 
this  matchless  spiritual  power  that  has  constrained  the 
world  to  recognise  in  Him  the  Word  become  flesh.  The 
literalist  presents  us  in  Christ  with  a  man  speaking 
extreme  and  irreconcilable  things,  impossible  to  obey  in 
their  totality — a  man  withdrawn  and  severely  remote.  The 
wiser  listener  hears  the  voice  of  the  Divine  Interpreter  of 
life,  ofTering  him  indeed  no  treatise  upon  the  art  of  li^jig, 
but  flashing  upon  his  soul  a  light  which  searches  its  depths, 
interprets  its  mystery,  and  guides  its  course. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  Stevenson,  in  his  earlier 
work  at  least,  adopted  the  rdle  of  literalist.  It  was  not  a 
role  which  in  any  way  suited  his  genius.  In  the  prosaic 
and  conventional,  one  expects  to  find  it ;  it  is  the  only 
way  of  regarding  things  they  know.  But  he  was  a  poetr— 
none  more  sensitive  to  subtle  and  instinctive  interpretations 
of  spiritual  facts  than  he.  It  must  be  supposed  that  by 
some  means  or  other  the  thought  of  Christ  had  for  him 
become  identified  with  a  prosaic  attempt  to  define  the 
indefinable,  and  had  acquired  a  certain  flatness  and 
rigidness  in  consequence.  Had  he  brought  to  the  task  of 
underataudiug  Christ    the    same  spiritual  receptivity  as 

91 


'In 


!(i 


■I  :-j.^.it.-iLi 


"S 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

that  with  which  he  approached,  say,  John  Banyan,  we 
should  have  been  spared  some  of  his  most  inadequate 
religious  work.  But  of  such  work,  after  all,  there  is  very 
little.  Christ  is  spiritually  discerned  by  the  writer  of 
Vailima  Letters  and  of  the  Prayen;  and  indeed  in  all  the 
writings  except  a  few  of  those  in  which  he  sets  himself  the 
task  of  discussing  Him. 


11 


iSifii 


lilil 


i       V- 


w 


92 


REVOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 


CHAPTER    VI 


REVOLT  AND  ORIGINALITY 


ii 


'vM 


A  NATURALLT  strong  personality,  nurtured  in  such  a  child- 
hood and  fed  by  yital  and  non-coufonning  books,  was  sure 
to  assert  itself  sooner  or  later  in  some  violent  form. 
On  one  side  of  his  nature  confident,  wayward,  and  fearlessly 
sure  of  himself,  yet  on  another  side  he  was  self-conscious, 
sensitive,  and  apt  to  distrust  his  moods.  These  are  ex- 
plosive elements  when  combined  in  the  person  of  a  vigorous 
joutb.  Bevolt  is  as  inevitable  as  life  itself  for  such  a  man. 
Had  he  been  physically  more  robust,  it  might  have  been 
averted.  Field-sports  are  the  safety-valve  for  much  of 
the  wildneM  of  young  days,  and  happy  families  owe  more 
to  them  than  to  any  other  agency  for  their  fresh  breeze  and 
pleasant  healthfulness.  But  Stevenson  was  no  sportsman 
nor  lover  of  outdoor  games,  and  the  pent-up  vitality  found 
other  means  of  escape. 

This  period  and  its  painful  experieuces  are  usually 
associated  with  his  father.  Mr.  Grahcm  Balfour  has 
described  tie  situation  admirably — 'one  period  of  mis- 
understanding they  had,  but  it  was  brief,  and  might  have 
been  avoided  had  either  of  the  pair  been  less  sincere  or  less 
in  earnest.  Afterwards,  and  perhaps  as  a  consequence, 
their  comprehension  and  appreciation  of  each  other  grew 
complete,  and  their  attachment  was  even  deeper  than  that 
usually  subsisting  between  father  and  only  son.'  The  mis- 
understanding  was  unavoidable  and  it  ran  deep.    Thomas 

93 


Jmr  ''I. 


jmL^ 


4  ■ 


THE    FAITH    OP   R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

Stevenson's  nature  was  rich  and  manj-sided,  with  much  in 
it  from  which   Bobert   derived   his  most  distingnishiDq 
qualities.     Tet  it  was   inevitable  that  the   son  should 
perplex  the  father,  who  was  strongly  attached  to  the  pro- 
prieties and  set  forms  of  the  society  in  which  he  moved, 
and  whose  habits  of  thought  did  not  permit  him  suddenly 
to  accommodate  himself  to   new  views  of  life  or  new 
scales  of  proportion.     The  breach  may  be  said  to  have 
begun  regarding   Robert's  choice   of  a   profession.    The 
father  had,  apparently,  taken  it  for  granted  that  every 
generation  of   Stevensons   would   accept   its  destiny  in 
engineering  and  the  Northern  Lights.    The  son  had  other 
views,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  literature.    After  some 
vain  attempts  to  foster  an  engineering  enthusiasm,  the 
uncongenial  compromise  of  the  Law  was  adopted,  and  the 
would-be  author  found  himself  chafing  against  the  dulness 
of  an  office,  and  playing  at  the  law-student  business  in  the 
university.     He  succeeded,  somehow  or  other,  in  passing 
his  examinations,  and  entered  the  Parliament  House  ^  as 
an  advocate.    But  the  only  joy  he  had  there  was  that  which 
its  picturesque  and  romantic  aspects  afforded.    The  portrait 
of  Lord  Braxfield,  the  statue  of  Forbes  of  CuUoden,  and  a 
certain  room  full  of  '  grim  lumber '  where  the  productimt 
from  criminal  cases  are  preserved — these  gave  its  meaning 
to  Parli  ment  House  for  him.     The  evident  half-hearted- 
ness  of  his  interest  in  Law  naturally  disappointed  the 
uncomprehending  father.    The  breach  deepened,  and  they 
found  themselves  on  opposite  sides  in  politics,  in  social 
tastes,  in  moral  principles,  and  in  religious  convictions. 

Nothing  could  more  clearly  show  the  mark  which  this 
breach  had  made  upon  him  than  his  treatment  in  fiction  of 
the  relations  of  father  and  son.    Bemembering  The  Story 

>  The  old  PMlimment  Honse  of  Scotland  is  now  occupied  by  the  Law 
Coarts. 

H 


m 


RBVOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

0/  a  Lie,  and  John  Nieholaon,  and  several  other  such 
instances,  one  feela  that  he  has  been  less  than  just  to 
fathers.  The  iron  has  entered  into  his  soul,  and  some  of 
the  domestic  scenes  are  little  better  than  caricatures.  The 
Poems,  however,  might  reasture  us ;  the  Letters  and  the  Life 
are  absolutely  reassuring,  for  the  reconciliation  manifest  in 
them  could  not  be  more  perfect.  Still  more  do  those  other 
passages  remove  the  memory  of  old  estrangements,  in  which 
he  regards  the  relation  from  the  father's  point  of  view  :— 
'The  love  of  parents  for  their  children  is,  of  all  natural 

affections,  the  most  ill-starred A  good  son,  who  can 

fulfil  what  is  expected  of  him,  has  done  his  work  in  life. 
He  has  to  redeem  the  sins  of  many,  and  restore  the  world's 
confidence  in  children.' 

The  revolt,  once  begun,  had  to  run  its  course.  Every- 
thing  conspired  to  send  him  forth  into  its  wild  freedom. 
His  romantic  figure  stood  out,  in  his  own  imagination^ 
against  the  background  of  conventional  Edinburgh,— type' 
for  him  of  conventionality  in  general.  It  must  be  surpris- 
ing  to  those  who  know  the  Ufe  of  Edinbui^h  in  a  different 
aspect,  to  remember  that  from  Stevenson's  point  of  view 
it  was  a  place  chiefly  notable  for  conscious  rectitude— 
eminently  respectable,  and  formal  to  the  point  of  freezing. 
Its  parties  he  abominated.  Its  proprieties  he  violated  with 
an  enthusiasm  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  There  is  some- 
thing infinitely  comical  in  the  remembrance  of  that  weird 
apparition,  of  strange  raiment  and  uncut  hair,  which  now 
and  then  amazed  the  Princes  Street  of  the  early  seventies 
The  revolt  was  heightened  by  his  own  romantic  conception 
of  the  city— 'this  dream  in  masonry  and  living  rock'— a 
conception  due  partly  to  historical  associations,  partly 
to  the  splendid  thrust  of  the  skylines  of  the  old  town,  and 
their  matchless  ekiarmuro  of  opalescent  grey.  '  By  all  the 
canons  of  romance'  he  tells  us,  'the  place  demands  to  be 

95 


H   1 


It 


a  \ 


n 


'■  >t^iJ 


THB    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STBYBNBON 


•i 


half-deMTted  and  leaning  towardi  decay;  birds  we  might 
admit  in  profasion,  the  play  of  the  son  and  winda,  and  a 
few  gipsies  encamped  in  the  chief  thoronghfare ;  bat  these 
citizens,  with  their  cabs  and  tramways,  their  trains  and 
posters,  are  altogether  out  of  key.  ...  To  see  them 
thronging  by,  in  their  neat  clothes  and  conscions  moral 
rectitude,  and  with  a  little  air  of  possession  that  verges  on 
the  absurd,  is  not  the  least  striking  feature  of  the  place.' 
For  himself,  he  consistently  adopted  the  part  he  had 
assigned  to  the  ideal  inhabitant,  and  was  a  veritable  'gipsy, 
encamped  in  the  thoroughfare.' 

His  student  life  fell  upon  days  congenial  to  his  spirit 
There  was  no  Students'  Bepresertnfive  Council  then,  nor 
had  the  instincts  of  the  noble  su.bge  yielded  to  modem 
civilisation  in  respect  of  women-students,  or  snow-balling, 
or  the  conduct  of  torch-light  processions.  It  was  the  time 
when,  as  in  the  days  of  Israel's  judges,  every  man  did  that 
which  was  right  in  his  own  eyes.  The  fact  that  in  1870  he 
was  arrested  for  snow-balling  and  bound  over  to  keep  the 
peace,  need  cause  no  vexation  to  his  admirers.  It  is  said 
that  he  did  not  deserve  arrest ;  certainly  there  were  many 
others  who  deserved  it  better.  The  serious  business  of  the 
classes  was  to  him  a  rather  irritating  detail.  He  was  an 
irregular  and  inattentive  undergraduate— in  his  own  words, 
'  a  certain  lean,  ugly,  idle,  unpopular  student,  full  of  chang- 
ing humours,  fine  occasional  purposes  of  good,  unflinching 
acceptance  of  evil,  shiverings  on  wet  east- windy  mornings, 
journeys  up  to  class,  infinite  yawniugs  during  lectures,  and 
unquestionable  gusto  in  the  delights  of  truancy.' 

It  was  not  long  until  the. revolt  became  a  revolution, 
which  marked  everything  belonging  to  the  accepted  order 
for  destruction,  or  at  least  for  hatred.  'Respectability' 
became  a  byword  with  him  for  'the  deadliest  gag  and 
wet-blanket  that  can  be  laid  on  man.'  It  was  for  i';s  dul- 
96 


RBYOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

neM  that  he  moit  detpiiad  it,  ito  stupid  Moeptance  of  mean- 
inglaM  and  anneoeiMry  mtriotioiu.    <  I  oanaot  baar  idiots,' 
he  tells  OS,  and  the  bondage  of  respectability  appeared 
to  him  the  commonest  type  of  idiocy.     'There  is  some- 
thing stupefying  in  the  recurrence  of  unimportant  things,' 
he  announces ;  and  respectability  stands  as  the  proof  of 
that    '  A  man's  view  of  the  universe  is  mostly  a  view  of  the 
civilised  society  in  which  he  lives.    Other  men  and  women 
are  so  much  more  grossly  and  so  much  more  intimately 
palpable  to  bis  perceptions,  that  they  stand  between  him 
and  all  the  rest.  .  .  .  And  hence  the  laws  that  affect  his 
intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  although  merely  customary, 
tnd  the  creatures  of  a  generation,  are  more  '^learly  and 
continually  before  his  mind  than  those  which  bind  him  into 
the  eternal  system  of  things.'    He  protests  against  this  in 
Mm  and  Books  and  lay  Morah,  after  the  manner  of  the 
following — 'I  can  think  of  no  more  melancholy  disgrace  for 
s  creature  who  professes  either  reason  or  pleasure  for  his 
guide,  than  to  spend  the  smallest  fraction  of  his  income 
upon  that  which  he  does  not  desire ;  and  to  keep  a  carriage 
'.a  wuich  you  do  not  wish  to  drive,  or  a  butler  of  whom  you 
are  afraid,  iz  a  patlietic  kind  of  folly.'     In  a  word,  'to 
do  anything  because  others  do  it,  and  not  because  the  thing 
is  good  or  kind  or  honest  in  its  own  right,  is  to  resign  all 
moral  control  and  captaincy  upon  yourself,  and  go  post 
haste  to  the  devil  with  the  greater  number.' 

For  much  of  this  we  may  all  be  profoundly  grateful  to 
him.  But  the  revolt  expresses  itself  in  superlatives  and 
sweeping  invectives  along  the  whole  line  of  modern  life. 
The  essence  of  our  educatiou  he  declares  to  be  the  incul- 
cation of  three  bad  things— the  terror  of  public  opinion,  and 
the  desire  of  wealth  and  applause— to  which  may  be  added 
'some  dim  notions  of  divinity,  perhaps,  and  book-keeping, 
and  how  to  walk  through  a  quadiille.'    Commerce  fares  no 

0  97 


11 


IP 


F 

\b.< 


nilMi 


*1 


THl    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    BTBVBNBON 

betUr  at  hii  hands.  He  endonea  Thorcan's  ooDtempt  for 
'ao-callad  hutinm,'  and  bcliaras  that  h«  livas '  in  an  age 
whan  the  apirit  of  honeaty  ia  ao  aparingly  onltivated  that 
all  bnaineaa  ia  oondaeted  npon  lies.'  Even  to  ita  detail 
he  followa  the  life  of  the  day  with  aword  and  fire.  Such 
harmleaa,  nacasaary  acynnota  of  civiliaation  aa  the  marriagv 
gift  and  the  ambrella  have  to  bear  the  oat-pouring  of  the 
Tiala  of  hia  wrath. 

The  laat-mentioned  acyanct  he  haa  made,  in  a  senae, 
olaaaioal,  by  adopting  it  for  the  very  emblem  and  oriflaiume 
of  reapectability.  Thia  oorious  innovation  in  heraldry  it 
expounded  with  extreme  facetiouaneaa  in  Th*  PhUoMphy  tf 
UmbrMoi,  a  ooll^  paper  which  might  aerve  aa  a  footnote 
to  Sartor  Baartui.  Again,  and  again,  aa  we  read  hia  worb, 
we  are  poked  at  by  thia  objectionable  article.  It  recun 
ofkener  than  the  cathedral,*  playing  the  ridiculous  to  the 
cathedral'a  aublime.  Alwaya  when  it  appears  one  suspecU 
a  aubtle  aymbolic  reference  to  reapectability,  and  the  sua* 
picion  ia  usually  confirmed.  Who,  for  example,  can  forget 
the  sally  against  those  who  give  one  the  impression  that 
'  never  to  forget  your  umbrella  through  a  long  life  would 
seem  a  higher  and  wiser  flight  of  achievement  than  to  go 
smiling  to  the  stake'? — a  company  to  which  the  author 
evidently  did  not  belong,  for  we  read  on  his  return  to 
Swanston  from  a  month'a  yachting  tour,  'I  left  my  pipe 
on  board  the  yacht,  my  umbrella  in  the  dog-cart,  and  my 
portmanlwau  by  the  way.' 

When  a  being  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  breaks  looae 
from  conventionalities,  we  may  expect  him  to  break  loose 
with  a  vengeance.  Nor  do  the  facts  in  any  way  belie  the 
expectation.  He  had  in  him  a  strain  of  the  Bohemias, 
which  guaranteed  that.  He  distinguishes  between  the 
ima^iuaiy  Bohemian, — that  mere  adventurer  who  drinks  and 

>  Cf.  p«ga20. 
98 


s. 


RBVOLT    AND    ORIOIITALITT 

wean  stnuig*  olothea.— «nd  the  true  Bohemian,  who  •  lives 
whoUjr  to  himaelf.  does  what  lie  wiahee,  and  not  what  is 
tbooghc  proper.'  No  doubt  he  had  a  tonoh  of  both  sorts 
of  Bohumia,  and  the  simple  passion  of  being  different  from 
other  people  became  a  kind  of  new  virtue  with  him  at 
times.  Yet  there  was  in  him  also  a  native  and  essential 
tendency  to  revert  to  the  elementary  and  the  savage.  The 
ume  delight  with  which  in  the  South  Sea  voyages  he  hails 
his  escape  from  the  shadow  of  the  Roman  Empire,  is  the 
eiplanation  of  his  having  found  the  submerged  part  of  the 
looiety  of  Edinburgh  so  congenUl  long  before.  '  I  was  the 
companion  of  seamen,  chimney-sweeps,  and  thieves,'  he  tells 
ui;  'my  circle  was  being  continually  changed  by  the  action 
of  the  police  magistrate.'  Again,  that  acquaiutance  with  the 
closes  and  dens  of  lowest  Edinburgh  is  but  another  phase  of 
the  delight  in  the  unconventional  which  made  him  prefer  the 
open-air  ablution  in  a  stream  of  the  Cevennes  to  'dabbling 
smong  dishes  in  a  bedroom ' ;  and  which  inspired  the  happy 
sentiment  written  from  the  schooner  £piator,  'Life  is  far 
better  fun  than  people  dream  who  fall  asleep  among  the 
chimney-stacks  and  telegraph  wires.' 

The  time  of  revolt  was  a  time  of  Bohemianism  turned 
to  bitterness.  In  aU  ways,  during  that  Ume,  the  accepted 
principle  of  his  life  was  to  be  against  the  Government  Nor 
did  his  rebellion  extend  only  to  the  province  of  the  earthly 
magistrate.  He  appears  as  the  self-appointed  critic  of  a 
world  in  which  man  delights  him  not  nor  woman  either. 
In  the  preface  to  An  Inhmd  Voyage  he  remarks  that  though 
the  book  runs  to  more  than  two  hundred  pages '  it  contains 
not  a  single  reference  to  the  imbecility  of  God's  universe, 
nor  so  much  as  a  single  hint  that  I  could  have  made  a 
better  one  myself.'  The  genial  confession  was  made  after 
the  waters  of  his  deluge  were  subsiding :  there  had  been  a 
time  when  his  friends  had  many  broad  h;-'       ,i  he  could 

99 


mi 


ip 


% 


^U: 


TBI    FAITH    or   R.    L.    BTlVBNBOlf 

l»Tt  ut$d%  •  vmUj  b«tt«r  iinivnM  hiniMll  Of  tht  ooU«g« 
dftTS,  thtn  dght  or  Un  ymn  pMt,  h«  Ulli  u  tiwt '  he  begin 
to  peroeiYe  th«t  life  wu  •  bandiMp  upon  etrtnge  wrong< 
aided  prindplee,  end  not,  m  be  bad  been  told,  <x  fair  and 
equal  raoe';  and  that  be  waa  'anaettled  and  diaooaraged, 
and  filled  ML  witb  tbat  tnunpeting  anger  with  which  jonng 
men  regard  i^Jwtioee  in  the  first  bJuib  of  youth.'  So,  when 
he  waa  not  declaiming,  he  would  ait  back  and  laugh  at  it 
alL  It  waa  hardly  a  great  laughter  and  not  at  all  a  whol«* 
aome  one.    Above  all,  it  waa  Tory  young. 

Aa  waa  to  be  expected,  the  province  of  morality  did  not 
eecape  the  revolt  Of  all  conventiona,  conventional  morality 
appeared  to  him  the  moet  irritating.  In  thia  connectioo, 
the  umbrella  metaphor  reminda  one  of  a  tale  (or  lep.uud* 
r^ardingKant  Looking  out  from  his  window  after  finiihing 
his  OriHtui  ^f  Fwrt  Aaion,  he  saw  old  Ludwig  his  gardener, 
laboriously  digging  in  the  rain.  '  Ah,'  said  the  philosopher, 
'  thia  Critique  u  all  very  well  for  me,  but  what  is  there  left 
to  protect  him  from  the  rain  t  I  muat  provide  an  umbrelU 
for  poor  old  Ludwig.'  So  he  sat  down  to  write  his  Mtta- 
phtfiie  of  Ethics.  It  waa  very  much  as  another  such 
umbrella  that  Stevenson  regarded  the  popular  notions  of 
morality.  At  the  best,  they  only  serve  to  keep  men 
from  thinking  for  themselves.  The  Jews  compiled  their 
six  htmdred  and  fifty  precepts  '  to  make  a  pocket-book  of 
reference  on  moralu,  which  should  stand  to  life  in  some  auch 
relation,  say,  as  Hoyle  stands  in  to  the  scientific  game  of 
whist.'  Such  morality  is  but  playing  by  rule,  and  results  in 
what  he  designated  '  clockwork  virtues ' ;  and  when  it  ii 
perfectly  achieved  it  produces  but  the  type  of  the  pattern 
woman  with  her  'irritating  deliberation  and  correctness.' 
'  If  she  would  only  write  bad  grammar,  or  foiget  to  finish 
a  sentence,  or  do  something  or  other  that  looks  fallible,  it 
would  be  a  relief.'  Still  more  irritating  to  him  than  even 
100 


niVOLf    AND    ORIOINALITir 

Um  flomplMMMj  of  Um  iMpMtebla,  wm  Um  hTpoerl^  ht 
datoelad  in  Umib.  In  th«  rhyn*  of  Th»  PirnU  and  Ou 
Afctkmrp  wt  M*  this  broQght  to  ito  pUioMt  imw,  tad 
thai  iM  hat  hk  txtraM  dcliiiMtioB  of  thoM  Mft  Mid  petty 
TioM  of  iwptetoUUty  it  hioh  he  moH  of  aU  abhomd.  Tht 
boorgeoia  dialiko  to  oapital  paniahment,  eombined  with  the 
bougMia  way  of  tr«!«tuig  domaatic  aarvanta,  w.  a  to  him 
a  llaontiDg  amblam  of  tha  aama  kind  of  hypooriay.  It  ia, 
ha  eonaidca,  like  mneh  alaa  that  aociaty  approvaa,  tha 
ineritabla  raanlt  of  a  want  of  direotnaaa  and  immediacy  in 
dealing  with  life'a  problema.  Tha  cantiona  regnlation  of 
life,  witii  a  politic  aye  on  the  fnture,  and  an  nnceaaing 
regard  to  tha  opiniona  of  thoae  round  about  ua.  may 
produce  'a  docile  citiaan,  but  never  a  man.'  For  in  auch 
inatancea  reapectability  becomea  the  rival  and  the  an^agoniat 
of  virtue. 

Am  ia  the  habit  with  thoae  who  take  it  aa  taeir  first  duty 
to  run  full  tilt  againat  conventionalitiea,  Stevenson  selected 
certain  mattera  in  tiie  accepted  code,  which  appeared  to 
him  espeoiallv  conventional,  and  oatentatioualy  paraded  hia 
defiance  of  them.  In  the  reapect  of  atrong  language  he  ;' 
entirely  indiffwent  to  ordinary  uaage.  His  viev/a  and 
practice  with  regard  to  the  obeervanoe  of  Sunday  were 
not  only  far  removed  from  Scottiah  traditions ;  they  were 
apparently  adopted  without  any  conaideration  of  the 
social  and  economic  aapecta  of  the  queation.  Theae  are 
mattera  whoae  algnificance  ia  by  no  meana  ao  alight  aa  it 
is  sometimeb  suppoeed  to  be.  Such  conventions  are  more 
intimately  connected  with  public  and  aocial  well-being  than 
they  appear  to  thoae  who  count  them  merely  conventional. 
Tet  theae  were  by  no  meana  the  limita  of  the  revolt  In 
his  youthful  rage  against  conventionality,  Stevenson  seana 
for  a  time  to  have  lost  the  sense  of  any  real  distinction 
between  the  conventional  and  the  moral,  and  the  whole 

101 


}i 


IM 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

field  of  ethics  to  have  lost  its  landmarks.  The  mood  is  well 
described  in  Ibrtd  Nota:  'Ton  may  see  from  afar  what  it 

will  come  to  in  the  end And  yet  it  will  seem  well  to 

break  all  the  network  bound  about  your  feet  by  birth  and 
old  companionship  and  loyal  love,  and  bear  your  shovelfnl 
of  phosphates  to  and  fro,  in  town  and  country,  until  the 
hour  of  the  great  dissolvent'  Of  that  time  of  wandering, 
a  reckless  free-lance  all  round,  there  are  many  hints  in 
his  own  writings  and  in  those  of  others.  With  its  details 
we  need  not  concern  ourselves.  It  was  a  phase  of  life, 
characteristic  but  essentially  abnormal.  It  did  not  repre- 
sent the  true  manhood  and  permanent  self  of  Stevenson; 
it  represented  only  these  in  the  crude  stages  of  their  develop- 
ment, exaggerated  and  embittered  by  the  circumstances  of 
bis  life  at  the  time. 

In  very  much  the  same  way  the  revolt  affected  his 
religion.  Many  things  may  have  conspired  to  this  result 
He  may  have  rebelled  against  M'Cheyne  in  the  days 
of  boyhood.  In  youth,  the  traditional  doctrines  of  ortho- 
dox Calvinism  did  certainly  provoke  him  to  an  angrj 
contradiction.  We  have  already  noted  his  statement  that 
he  had  found  the  New  Testament '  an  unsettling  book.'  He 
may  possibly  have  met  in  real  life  some  caricature  of 
godliness  such  as  he  depicts  for  us  in  Admiral  Guinea. 
There  may  be  a  personal  touch  in  that  strongly  drawn 
episode  in  John  Ificholson's  Misadventure,  where  the  some- 
what inhuman  friend  insists  on  John's  falling  at  once 
upon  his  knees  and  begging  God's  forgiveness — 'And 
the  great  baby  plumped  upon  his  knees  and  did  as  he 
was  bid;  and  none  the  worse  for  that!  But  while  he 
was  heartily  enough  requesting  forgiveness  on  general 
principles,  the  rational  side  of  him  distinguished,  and 
wondered  if,  perhaps,  the  apology  were  not  due  upon 
the  other  part.'  With  these  and  similar  experiences  of  the 
102 


RBYOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

•coiled  perplexities  of  youth,' most  readers  must  sympathise, 
as  they  remember  how  they  too  have  seen  faith  distorted 
and  rendered  for  the  time  impossible  in  hours  of  like 
bitterness. 

But  apart  from  all  such  personal  and  minor  causes,  the 
spirit  of  revolt  itself  seems  to  be  the  real  explanation ; 
and  since  religion  is  the  most  commanding  of  all  elements 
in  life,  it  is  obvious  that  a  serious  revolution  must  reach  its 
climax  there.  Accordingly  we  observe  how  everything  con- 
nected even  with  the  externals  of  the  religious  life,  came 
within  the  sphere  of  his  denunciations.  'The  average  sermon ' 
we  read, '  flees  the  point,  disporting  itself  in  that  Eternity 
of  which  we  know,  and  need  to  know,  so  little,  avoiding  the 
bright,  crowded,  and  momentous  fields  of  life  wheie  destiny 
awaits  us.'  Even  the  music  of  church  bells  is 'a  hideous 
clangour,  not  many  uproars  in  the  world  more  dismal.'  So, 
with  the  comprehensiveness  of  a  Satanic  rebellion  against 
everything  in  general,  he  abjured  religion  and  pronounced 
himself  an  atheist.  There  were  scenes  with  his  parents 
which  deeply  wounded  all  the  three  concerned.  His 
metaphor  for  these  scenes  is  that  of  a  cross,  studded  with 
rusty  nails  to  tear  the  fingers  that  carry  it,  of  which  the 
heavy  end  falls  with  lacerating  weight  upon  the  parents. 
In  such  scenes,  we  find  him  stubbornly  convinced  that 
honesty  demands  the  part  he  takes.  He  repudiates  the 
accusation  of  being  a  'light-hearted  scoflTer'  or  a 'careless 
infidel,'  and  takes  himself  throughout  with  the  most  extreme 
seriousness. 

This  latter  fact  should  give  pause  to  those  who,  whether 
on  the  side  of  religion  or  against  it,  are  inclined  to  pass 
sweeping  judgments  on  his  memory.  Life,  at  such  times  of 
crisis,  is  a  very  complicated  afTair,  and  it  generally  shows 
the  most  incongruous  elements  in  close  proximity.  Even 
at  the  height  of  his  revolt,  there  seem  to  have  been  seasons 

103 


il 


THB    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STBVBNSON 

of  moral  eamestneM  and  religions  enthiuiMm,  though  these 
were  but  occasional  and  apparently  ine£Fectiye.  Through 
all,  the  preaching  instinct  was  strong  in  him;  at  the 
worst  he  was  rather  a  Puritan  backslidden  into  a  rerel  than 
a  reveller  masquerading  as  a  Puritan;  and  there  was  a 
certain  upright  stock  in  his  manhood  wherein  lay  the 
deepest  truth  of  his  character  and  thought  even  at  the 
wont  times.  Afterwards,  when  his  father  came  to  recognise 
and  admit  his  honesty  in  regard  to  the  religious  difference 
his  trust  in  him  was  fully  restored. 

One  thing  is  quite  uhvious,  and  the  change  in  the  spirit 
of  the  age  between  1873  and  1903  has  made  it  already 
familiar.    That  is  the  distinction  between  essential  religion 
and  the  forms  in  which  it  may  be  embodied  for  the  time 
being.    To  a  large  extent  the  bitterness  of  this  difference 
between  father  and  son  lay  in  the  fact  that,  as  Mr.  Graham 
Balfour  has  expressed  it, '  the  one  was  questioning  dogmas 
and  observances  which  the  other  r^arded  as  impious  to 
examine.'    The  father's  conception  of  religion  was  strong 
and  clear,  but  it  was  utterly  inelastic,  allowing  for  none  of 
those  differences  in  mattera  of  faith  which  the  complexity 
of  human  life  and  the  difficulties  that  beset  all  intellectual 
adventure  demand.    The  son,  unable  honestly  to  adopt  his 
father's  point  of  view,  imagined  himself  driven  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme  of  '  youthful  atheism.'    Neither  father  nor  son 
at  that  time  knew  of  the  existence  of  a  middle  space  in 
religious  thought.     Their  intellectual  world  had  but  two 
poles,  and  both  of  them  were  arctic;  while  th    sunny  and 
fruitful  lands  between  were  as  yet  an  undiscoverod  con- 
tinent to  them.    In  this  phase  of  his  revolt,  Stevenson  is 
representative  of  a  very  large  number  of  the  young  men 
and  women  of  our  time.    It  is  daily  becoming  more  obvious 
that  while  religion  may  appeal  to  ourselves  only  in  certain 
stated  forms  of  doctrine  and  observance,  we  must  all  allow 
104 


?  'I 


RBVOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

thtt  there  are  some  to  whom  it  will  appeal  only  when 
expressed  in  other  forms.  To  wholly  identify  the  Christian 
religion  with  even  the  most  venerable  of  the  forms  in  which 
it  has  expressed  itself,  is  to  throw  it  into  immediate 
contrast  with  the  breadth  of  our  intellectual  life,  to 
give  it  an  inhuman  aspect,  and  to  exclude  many  from  its 
scoeptanee. 

As  to  essential  morality,  it  would  be  as  untrue  as  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  say  that  a  revolt  is  inevitable  for  all 
strong  natures.    The  facts  of  a  thousand  live*  give  to  such 
a  view  point-blank  denial— lives  hard  pressed  with  tempta- 
tion, forb&ken  for  the  time  by  their  former  faith,  and  yet 
carrying  through  all  'the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life.' 
Theirs  is  the  most  brilliant  victory  over  the  world ;  and,  if 
one  may  read  between  the  lines,  Stevenson  would  be  the  first 
to  admit  thi&    It  cannot  be  too  strongly  impressed  upon  each 
new  generation,  that  such  revolt  is  not  a  perquisite  of  genius, 
but  a  stain  upon  its  memory.     But  apart  from  the  great 
loyalties  of  conscience,  the  general  spirit  of  revolt  was  an 
inevitable  phase  of  his  experience.    'If  a  man '  says  King- 
lake  in  Sotken  •  be  not  bom  of  his  mother  with  a  ehiffney- 
bit  in  his  mouth,  there  comes  to  him  a  time  for  loat^axjg 
the  wearisome  ways  of  society — a  time  for  not  liking  tamed 
people— a  time  for  not  sitting  in  pews— a  time  for  impugn- 
ing the  foregone  opinions  of  men,  and  haughtily  dividing 
truth  from  falsehood — a  time,  in  short,  for  questioning, 
scoffing,   and   railing.'     That   time   came   fiercely   upon 
Stevenson  and   he  did   not  repent  of  it     'Because    I 
have  reached  Paris,'  he  informs  us,  'I  am  not  ashamed 
of  having  passed  through  Newhaven  and  Dieppe.'    '  Shelley 
was  a  young  fool  .  .  .   for  God's   sake   give   me  the 
young  man  who  has  brains  enough  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself.' 

No  sensible  person  thinks  worse  of  a  lad  because  he  has 

106 


ft: 


it 


I  - 


i^':-'itl^ 


THB    FAITH    OF   R.   L.    STBYBNSON 


•  t 


ii-   I 


passed  throagh  such  a  phase,  yet  it  is  easy  to  take  the 
matter  too  seriously.  It  is  but  a  stage,  in  itself  irrational, 
valuable  only  in  the  light  of  those  goals  in  later  life  to 
which  it  leads.  But  on  the  one  hand  the  respectable 
Mrs.  Grundy  is  apt  to  be  shocked  by  it:  it  so  impresses 
her  that  she  can  see  nothing  else  about  the  man  beyo  d  it 
On  the  other  hand  there  are  sure  to  be  some  who  like  it  so 
well  that  they  refuse  to  recognise  any  later  aspect,  and 
insist  on  retaining  the  youthful  revolutionist  for  the  final 
picture  of  the  man.  £ach  of  these  kinds  of  critic  manifests 
either  a  want  of  intelligence  or  a  want  of  the  will  to  under- 
stand. In  reply  to  all  of  thejn  it  must  b«)  repeated  that  that 
period  is  only  intelligible  when  seen  in  its  place  in  the 
development  of  life  and  character.  In  it  we  see  Stevenson 
coming  to  himself,  but  not  yet  arrived.  By  deliberate  acts 
of  will  he  choee  the  better  part.  All  that  remained  of  the 
bitter  and  turbulent  days  was  an  occasional  struggle  with  old 
temptations,  a  large  and  generous  allowance  for  the  failings 
of  others,  and  an  unconcealed  contempt  for  such  moral 
weaklings  as  make  no  fight  for  the  flag,  but  settle  down  at 
their  worst  and  talk  cynically  about  the  duty  they  have 
neglected  and  the  ideals  on  which  they  have  turned  their 
back. 

Meanwhile  we  may  look  upon  this  distressful  period  as 
the  time  when  he  was  clearing  the  ground  for  the  free 
action  of  his  personality  among  the  many  facts  of  lift 
Breaking  away,  somewhat  violently  it  must  be  confessed, 
from  what  seemed  to  him  unwarrantable  restraints,  he 
would  face  the  future  with  a  mind  flexible  and  untram- 
melled. The  only  meaning  of  such  an  experience  that  has 
any  real  or  permanent  value  lies  in  the  clearing  of  the 
ground  that  a  man  may  be  his  true  self. 

This  leads  us  to  the  consideration  of  Stevenson's  ori^n- 
106 


RBYOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

alitif.  It  was  not  by  tmj  means  an  unattached  and  irre- 
•ponsible  reception  of  thoughts  which  seemed  to  come  to 
him  oot  of  nowhere,  for  he  rooted  his  thought  deeply  in  books 
and  m  a  careful  study  of  men  and  things.  But  he  insi&'jed 
on  judging  all  such  materials  for  himself  and  using  them  in 
his  own  way.  At  first  there  are  signs  of  a  certain  wilful- 
ness and  freakishness,  in  which  we  detect  the  conscious 
rebel  against  the  accepted  order.  Later,  and  in  growing 
fulness,  we  perceive  that  naturalness  which  is  a  quality 
only  of  the  mature. 

Nor  must  his  originality  be  confounded  with  the  mere 
thirst  for  change.  Many  of  the  views  he  had  once  adopted 
remained  with  him  to  the  end.  He  was  in  politics  a 
conservative,  and  the  socialism  of  early  days  was  hardly 
a  break  in  the  conservatism.  The  two  extremes,  as  recent 
political  history  clearly  shows,  are  not  so  wide  apart  as 
might  be  thought.  The  middle  course  of  liberalism  was 
wholly  uncongenial  to  his  taste,  appearing  to  him  pedestrian 
at  its  best.  He  had  little  sympathy  with  bourgeoisie  either 
in  theory  or  in  the  persons  of  those  who  represent  it.  His 
repeated  statement  that  in  Polynesia  '  the  higher  the  family 
the  better  the  man'  had  really  a  wider  application.  His 
conservatism  is  a  far-reaching  and  import  ut  element  in 
his  nature.  New  light  he  always  welc  ,  but  it  fell 
upon  a  mind  which  had  schooled  itseL  ,  a  sense  of 
history,  and  whose  convictions  were  not  easily  altered. 
Every  one  must  remember  the  scenes  in  the  Travels 
with  a  Donkey  whose  vivid  account  of  the  Catholics 
and  Protestants  of  the  Ceveuues  has  for  its  often-repeated 
moral,  'It  is  not  good  to  change.'  The  same  sentiment 
reaches  its  climax  in  St.  Ives,  when  Mr.  Anne's  servant 
expresses  his  willingness  to  become  a  Catholic  like  his 
master,  and  is  answered :  '  I  wish  to  take  my  chances  with 
my  own  pr         ^nd  so  should  you.    If  u  is  a  question  of 

107 


if 


! ;  1 


I'M 


U>i 


r,- 


THE    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    STBVBNSON 

going  to  hell,  go  to  hell  like  a  gentlem»n  with  yonr 
anoetton.'  The  greatest  of  hia  fkblea,  that  ffottae  of  Md 
which  strikes  home  so  far  and  pitilessly,  is  a  protest  against 
theological  reform.  The  other  fable  of  n»  Ibur  Se/ormen 
is  a  sarcasm  npon  reform  of  any  kind. 

Not  that  he  altogether  disbelieved  in  change.    'All  our 
attributes  are  modified  or  changed;  iud  it  will  be  a  poor 
account  of  ns  if  our  views  do  not  modify  and  change  in  a 
proportion.    To  hold  the  same  views  at  forty  as  we  held  at 
twenty  is  to  have  been  stupefied  for  a  score  of  years,  and 
take  rank,  not  as  a  prophet,  but  as  an  unteachable  brat, 
well  birched  and  none  the  wiser.'    In  all  his  moralising 
upon  Travel  we  find  the  amplification  of  the  same  views. 
But  he  insisted  on  naturalness  in  any  changes  he  might 
undergo ;  for  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  stereotyped  process 
of  change,  a  formal  system  of  development.    Under  such  a 
system  progress  turns  out  to  mean  only  the  exchange  of  one 
set  of  formulsa  for  another.    Stevenson  would  never  commit 
himself  to  any  policy  of  forward  movement,  political  or 
religious.    The  vrind  must  blow  upon  him  as  it  listed,  and 
not  out  of  a  quarter  prescribed  even  by  himself.     Such 
detachment  is  involved  in  the  meaning  of  the  word  origin- 
ality  as  he  understands  it,  and  from  this  we  see  how  words 
like  'progress," orthodoxy,'  'heterodoxy'  are  meaningless 
as  applied  to  him.    He  has  shaken  himself  clear  of  them, 
and  to  estimate  his  position  we  are  forced  to  work  with 
quite  another  set  of  categories. 

We  have  seen  him  down  at  the  bed-rock  of  things,  far 
beneath  the  conventionalities  of  the  world's  surface.  There 
is  'something  elemental,  something  rude,  violent,  and 
savage'  in  the  mood,  and  we  feel  that  life  there  is  danger- 
ously near  the  brute  levels.  Yet  all  this  turns  out  to  be 
not  a  nihilistic  but  a  constructive  criticism  of  lifa  It  is  bnt 
the  consistent  action  of  that  interest  in  himself,  that  sense 
108 


I 


RBYOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

ai  the  valae  of  his  own  aonl,  which  we  found  to  be  a  !&!>^a> 
mental  factor  in  his  character.     He  thinks  too  much  of 
himself  to  be  content  with  half-measures.    He  will  not 
build  his  house  of  life  on  foundations  chosen  for  him  b} 
■ociety.    From  the  very  bottom  he  will  be  a  law  unto  him- 
lelf— 'I,  too,  have  a  soul  of  my  own,  arrogantly  upright, 
snd  to  that  I  will  listen  and  conform.'    This  is  the  great 
principle  of  Zay  MoraU,  Be  thyself— and  for  that  end  first 
find  out  what  it  is  in  thee  to  be.    The  great  function  of  all 
teaching  is  to  remind  the  pupil  of  his  soul ;  to  make  him 
feel  in  the  most  literal  sense  the  truth  of  the  supreme  ques- 
tion What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world 
ind  lose  himself^    In  occasional  moods  he  appears  moment- 
arily to  tire  of   this  unchartered  freedom,  as  when  he 
pndses  the  disciplined  routine  of  the  monastery  in  the 
Cevennes— 'We  speak  of  hardships,  but  the  true  hardship 
is  to  be  a  dull  fool,  and  permitted  to  mismanage  life  in  our 
own  dull  and  foolish  manner.'    But  then  Stevenson  was  no 
dull  fool,  as  he  was  very  well  aware.    Like  Thoreau,  he  can- 
not understand  why  a  man  should  ask  his  neighbour's 
advice,  when  there  is  a  nearer  and  a  more  loquacious 
neighbour  within.    In  a  word,  'To  know  what  you  prefer, 
instead  of  humbly  saying  Amen  to  what  the  world  tells 
you  you  ought  to  prefer,  is  to  have  kept  your  soul  alive. . . . 
Such  a  man  may  be  a  man,  acting  on  his  own  instincts, 
keeping  in  his  own  shape  that  God  made  him  in;  and  not 
a  mere  crank  in  the  social  engine-house,  welded  on  prin- 
ciples that  he  does  not  understand,  and  for  purposes  that 
he  does  not  care  for.' 

The  forms  in  which  his  originality  showed  itself,  and 
some  of  the  views  to  which  it  led,  will  be  noted  in  later 
chapters.  MeanwhUe,  we  are  prepared  to  find  that  it  will 
offer  fresh  standards  and  scales  of  pi^portion  which  may 
sometimes  lead    to  startling  views,  both  on  moral  and 

109 


if 


iiii 


;l'  i 


'i:iiili 

-"^^'m 


THl    VAITH    OF   B.    L.   STBTBHBOM 

religion!  qaMtioua.    With  these  in  their  detail  we  mtj 
agree,  or  we  may  differ  from  them;  in  either  ceae  we 
shell  find  them  etimnleting  end  soggestiye.    There  may 
even  be  some  to  whom  it  will  do  no  harm  to  be  reminded 
that  a  man  whose  strong  language  shocks  them,  may  yet 
have  reached  heights  of  self-eacrifice  which  they  have  never 
attempted;  or  that  their  stricter   views  npon  Sabbath 
observance  can  hardly  tnm  the  scale  against  his  more 
severe  interpretation  of  commercial  honeaty.    Oar  present 
point  is  to  note  the  principle  on  which  he  arrived  at  ail 
his  views,  vis.,  that  'what  is  right  is   that  for  which 
a  man's  central  self  is  ever  ready  to  sacrifice  immediate  or 
distant  interests;  what  is  wrong,  is  what  the  central  self 
discards  or  rejecte  es  incompatible  with  the  fixed  design  of 
lighteoosnesa.'     The  moral  outcome  of  this  principle  maj 
be  summed  up  in  his  oft-repeated  adherence  to  Christ's  sub- 
stitution  of  a  spirit  for  a  set  of  rales.    The  moral  mm, 
according  to  Stevenson,  is  he  who,  acquainting  himself  with 
the  inner  spirit  of  righteousness,  works  out  his  own  salva- 
tion, rather  than  adopta  the  regulations  laid  down  for  him  by 
another.    As  to  religion,  having  swept  the  ground  clear  of 
preconceptions,  he  livee  by  what  vision  of  God  and  what 
glimpses  of  spiritual  light  he  can  have  directly  for  himself. 
It  will  no  doubt  appear  to  many  readers  to  be  a  dangerous 
policy,  this  disowning  of  accepted  formuln  of  morality,  and 
laughing  at  current  systems  of  religious  belief— dangerous 
especially  in  a  young  conservative,  whose  laughter  may  be 
expected  to  show  a  tendency  towards  cynicism.  Yet  it  would 
seem  that  for  Stevenson  it  was  a  necessity.    Without  such 
revolt  there  could  have  been  no  real  reconstraction  either 
of  character  or  of  faith  such  as  his  mind  demanded.    This 
at  least  may  be  said  of  him  with  assurance,  that  once  the 
ground  was  cleared,  he  committed  himself   to  his  new 
principlee.     There  was   no   timid   reaction,  no  cautious 
110 


BBYOLT    AND    ORIGINALITY 

Ntnat,  raoh  m  soon  ehanget  the  ooune  of  many  youth- 
fid  adventaren  into  homeward -bound  thought!  and 
eonforming  conduct  He  took  the  lifelong  riak.  and  oon- 
riitratly  followed  the  light  that  waa  granted  him  to 
the  end. 


f? 


; ;  ♦ 

;  '  1 


Tf 

■ 

1 

111 


THl    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    BTBYBNBON 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE  GIFT  OF  VISION 


I   I 
1    ^ 

l\ 

t     ! 
1     r 


Arm  10  thoroagh  and  so  cotUy  a  clearing  of  the  ground 
for  the  play  of  a  man's  originality,  we  are  entitled  to  expect 
something  remarkable  when  we  continue  our  study  on  iti 
more  positive  side.  Here,  especially,  we  must  remember 
that  in  Stevenson  there  is  always  a  close  connection  between 
the  physical  and  the  spiritual ;  so  that  all  spiritual  faculties 
which  are  peculiarly  well  developed  are  founded  upon 
physical  bases  equally  conspicuous. 

His  sense  of  hearing,  as  well  as  that  of  sight,  was  keen 
beyond  the  average.  The  two  are  at  times  combined  m 
metaphors  which  reveal  him  in  a  double  intensity,  as  when 
he  gives  a  Ust  of  the  names  of  British  poets  and  exclaims, 
'  what  a  constellation  of  lordly  words ! '  As  to  the  sense  of 
sound,  that  was  developed  in  him  to  so  fine  a  pitch  of 
sensitiveness,  that  it  might  have  almost  been  chosen  instead 
of  vision  for  our  typical  instance.  So  far  as  technical  mastery 
of  the  art  of  music  goes,  he  seems  to  deserve  credit  rather 
for  appreciation  than  for  performance,  in  spite  of  various 
learned  and  technical  discussions  of  'a  dominant  eleventh' 
or  'a  seventh  on  the  D,'  and  so  on.  The  penny  whistle, 
which  retained  his  fidelity  to  the  end,  is  hardly  an  instru- 
ment likely  to  hold  captive  the  soul  of  a  heaven-bom 
musician.  Yet  his  hearing  was  delicate  in  the  extreme. 
Only  one  whose  ear  was  sensitive  could  have  made  ihe 
bugles  from  the  Castle  touch  the  heart  as  he  has  done,  wiUi 
112 


IP 


THI    GIFT    OF    YTBION 

thiir '  nnapadnUa  appaid/ '  m  if  MnMthiiig  yMrningly  eriad 
to  DM  out  of  th«  daritiMM  oyerhMid  to  oome  thithw  and  find 
f«tt'  Nor  ooold  a  dall  ear  have  oontraatad  the  tilenoe  of  a 
dflMited  hooM  with  'that  low  itir  (perhapc  aadiUe  rather 
to  the  ear  of  the  spirit  than  to  the  ear  of  the  flesh)  by  which 
a  house  aanonnoee  and  betrays  its  human  lodgers.'  This 
{fcoolty  not  only  gare  him  an  exquisite  ear  for  style ;  it 
iofeeted  him  nnconsoiously  with  the  mannerism  and  the 
ihythm  of  the  time  in  %hich  his  stories  moved.  Bean 
Austin  speaks  the  language  of  his  day  with  hardly  a  slip. 
HteUkmai  might  have  been  written  by  a  Covenanter. 

Yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  gift  of  vision  was 
his  particular  and  supreme  endowment.    Perhaps  the  most 
surprising  of  all  his  personal  notes  and  comments,  is  the 
itfttement  that  in  his  young  days  he  never  had  any  real 
pictorial  vision.    He  had  a  decided  talent  for  drawing,  and 
t  passion  for  working  with  colours.    But  he  bad  discovered 
that  he  drew  from  fancy,  and  not  an  actual  picture  of 
things  that  were  before  him.    In  Arnold's  phrase,  his  eye  was 
not  on  the  object    One  can  understand  this  better  in  the  light 
of  his  subjectiveness.    He  was  constantly  aware  of  himself, 
and  what  he  saw  was  not  the  crude  fact  of  the  object, 
bat  that  fact  as  part  of  his  own  experience,  interpreted 
by  many  private  feelings  and  associations.    To  some  extent 
this  continued  to  be  true  of  him  throughout;  and  there 
are  few  who  would  wish  it  otherwise.    One  thing  at  least 
is  certain,  that  he  saw,  and  made  his  readers  see,  with  a 
power  of  vision  that  has  been  rarely  matched.    His  eyes, 
as  we  know  them  firom  pictures  and  descriptions,  were 
eminently  seeing  eyes.     'They  were  the   most   striking 
feature  of  the  fiace,'  says  his  biographer;  'they  were  of  the 
deepest  brown  in  colour,  set  extraordinarily  wide  apart. 
At  most  times  they  had  only  a  shy,  quick  glance  tliat  was 
most  attractive;  but  when  he  was  moved  to  anger  or  any 

H  113 


M 

i  i-j 
If 


iV 


mm* 


THI    FAITH    OV   B.    L.   STIVINBON 

fiMM  ttnotioii,  th^  MtiMd  litenllf  to  U«m  nA  glow  with 
•  fiwy  light'  ETtn  thoM  who  h*T«  mmi  them  only  in 
pictoraa,  h«Tt  pcndYod  how  boij  ud  dbctiTe  tiioy  mutt 
have  been  in  their  wotk  of  leelng,  end  here  felt  an  almoet 
•iniater  power  in  them,  ae  if  they  had  seen  too  much. 

From  hie  Lttt$n  we  peroeiYe  a  gradual  change  ttma 
vision  to  hearing,  and  indeed  ttom  the  yoatbfol  MntitiveneM 
and  intensity  of  physical  life,  to  the  subtler  and  more 
spiritual  power  of  peychological  perception  and  analysis. 
He  oonfeMod,  in  a  remarkable  passage  written  in  his  Isit 
year,  that  his  yisual  sense  was  being  starred,  and  that  one 
of  his  two  aims  in  writing  was  '  death  to  the  optic  nenre.' 
When  we  remember  Weir  qf  HtrmxUcn  we  are  relieved  to 
find  that  in  this  aim  he  sipially  failed.  Take  any  of  hit 
descriptions,  but  especially  Uiose  of  women,  and  judge  them 
by  this  test  Of  Mrs.  Weir  he  says,  that '  her  view  of  history 
was  wholly  artless,  a  design  in  snow  and  ink.'  The  picture 
of  the  younger  Kirstie  in  church  is  perhaps  as  good  nn 
example  as  could  be  selected :  '  About  her  iu;,d  clustered  a 
disorder  of  dark  ringlets,  a  little  garland  of  yellow  French 
roses  surmounted  her  brow,  and  the  whole  was  crowned  by 
a  village  hat  of  chipped  straw.  Amongst  all  the  rosy  and 
all  the  weathered  faces  that  surrounded  her  in  church,  she 
glowed  like  an  opening  flower — girl  and  raiment,  and  the 
cairngorm  that  caught  the  daylight  and  returned  it  in  a 
fiery  fiash,  and  the  threads  of  bronze  and  gold  that  played 
in  her  hair.'  In  these  and  innumerable  other  passages 
there  is  a  quite  reassuring  vitality  of  optic  nerve. 

The  lifelong  gift  of  vision  afibrds  him  now  and  then  the 
luxury  of  that  purely  spectacular  mood  which  he  has  so  well 
described  in  his  essays  on  IdUn,  Walking  Tours,  aud  Hoadt, 
He  blames,  indeed,  the  readers  of  his  generation  for  not 
living  in  a  book  or  character,  but  standing  afar  ofi",  specta- 
tors at  a  puppet-show.  Yet  in  the  mood  referred  to,  that 
lU 


THl    OIVT    OF    TIBION 

k  jndmfy  what  1m  hlmMlf  did.  H«  i«  the  mui  at  the 
window,  Um  wayfaring  man  at  the  inn,  and  the  world  ia 
bat  a  apeotaela  to  him.  Men  and  women  who  go  by 
•iie  not  people  in  any  Uving  and  kindly  eanee.'  'To  dt 
rtiU  and  contemplate  ...  to  be  everything  and  ereiy where 
in  sympathy,  and  yet  content  to  remain  where  and  what 
yoo  are-ie  not  this  to  know  both  wiklom  and  rirlue,  and 
to  dweU  with  happineee?  After  aU.  it  ii  not  they  who 
carry  flags,  but  they  who  look  upon  it  from  a  private 
chamber,  who  have  the  fun  of  the  prooeesion.'  Thue  is 
SteTen«)n  at  times— especiaUy  in  the  days  of  youth— 
merely  'intereeted  in  the  phases  of  life  and  human  char- 
•oter,'  <  insatiably  curious  in  the  aspects  of  life.' 

Sometimee  such  vidon  culminates  in  moments  of  magni- 
licent  colour  and  brightness,  the  spectacle  appearing  as  'a 
•plendid  nightmare  of  light  and  heaf  Yet  it  is  in  quieter 
tints  that  the  procession  passes  oftenest  Incapable  of 
being  bored— except,  of  course,  by  •  idiota  '—he  is  like  Walt 
Whitman  in  his  fondness  for  the  dioramic  view  of  everyday 
things.  An  idler,  and  prince  of  idlers,  be  can  sit  all  day  by 
a  bumside,or  beside  the  stream  of  human  life,  and  'no 
think  lang.'  In  Boadt  he  gives  us  minute  directions  for  that 
luxurious  and  systematic  iilettantism  which  is  requisite 
before  a  man  can  enjoy,  to  its  quintessence,  the  delight  of 
•oeneiy.  The  essay  on  Unpleasant  Places  completes  the 
education  of  the  epicure  in  vision,  telling  us  that '  any  place 
18  good  enough  to  live  a  life  in.  while  it  is  only  in  a  few 
end  those  highly-favoured.  that  we  can  pass  a  few  Hours' 
agreeably.' 

This  mood  represents,  in  its  extreme  and  isolated  form 
one  half  of  the  character  of  Stevenson,  the  other  half  being 
that  of  strenuousness  and  exertion.  To  be  more  precise,  in 
his  own  words  three-fifths  of  him  is  artist  and  two-fifths 
adventurer.    These  two  elements,  traced  from  their  physical 

115 


i? 


\i  I 


;  1  il 


■    h 


l»i 


THE    FAITH    OV    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

beginnings  np  to  their  highest  mortl  and  spiritual  develo})- 
ments,  fonn  the  burden  of  our  chapters  on  vision  and  travel, 
and  are  of  central  importance  to  the  study  of  his  character. 
They  represent  life  as  he  viewed  it,  on  its  two  sides  of 
theory  and  practice;  the  spectacle  and  the  business  of 
living.  In  the  present  chapter  and  the  next,  we  shall 
consider  the  former  of  these,  the  gift  of  vision,  first  in  the 
sense  of  visual  perception,  then  in  the  wider  sense  of 
imagination  in  general,  and  particularly  imagination  in  the 
mond  and  spiritual  region. 

Power  of  vision  may  be  judged  by  many  criteria,  two 
of  which  mainly  concern  us  here — its  exactness  and  its 
intensity.  The  distinguishing  quality  of  Stevenson's  vision 
is  the  degree  in  which  it  has  achieved  the  combination 
of  these  two,  each  at  an  unusually  high  power.  Its  exact- 
nett  is  everywhere  appaient,  in  spite  of  his  confession  that 
it  was  from  fancy  rather  than  from  fact  tJiat  he  drew  in 
early  days.  Visitors  in  any  house  may  be  divided  into 
the  two  classes  of  those  who  see  the  patterns  on  wall-papers 
and  floor  carpets,  and  those  to  whom  such  unimportant 
items  of  daily  life  are  but  a  pleasing  or  displeasing  blur  of 
colours.  Stevenson  was  of  those  who  saw.  Every  detail 
in  the  visible  world  was  for  him  a  matter  of  minute  obser- 
vation, and  it  is  this  eye  for  detail  which  lends  their 
vividness  to  many  of  his  descriptions  and  metaphors.  In 
no  book  is  this  more  striking  than  in  his  volume  on  the 
South  Seas,  a  collection  of  curious  facts  for  many  of  which 
posterity  will  thank  him.  What  could  be  more  vivid,  for 
example,  than  this — '  On  a  sudden,  the  trade-wind,  coming 
in  a  gust  over  the  isthmus,  struck  and  scattered  the  fans  of 
the  palms  above  the  den;  and  behold  I  in  two  of  the  tops 
there  sat  a  native,  motionless  as  an  idol  and  watching  us, 
you  would  have  said,  without  a  wink.  The  next  moment 
the  tree  closed  and  the  glimpse  was  gone.'    The  samu  eyes 

lie 


m.,     i  i  i 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 

which  saw  that,  saw  also  what  the  '  charming  lad '  bought 
in  the  store—'  five  ship- '  isscuits,  a  bottle  of  scent,  and  two 
balls  of  washing  hV  }'    One  kiu^^  he  creates  for  us  as  we 
read  'a  puppet  and  \  trombler,  thr  unwieldy  shuttlecock  of 
orators';  another,    y%.riiig   a   European   woman's    calico 
gown,  a  pith  helmet,  and  blue  of  octacles,  and  armed  with  a 
Winchester  rifle,  is  introduced  as  'this  chimaera  waiting 
with  his  deadly  engine.'     Similar   detail-work    may  be 
observed  in  the  account  of  John  Nicholson's  return  to  the 
house  in  Randolph  Crescent.     There  is  the  clothes-brush, 
and  the  hat-stand  with  its  coats  and  hats,  and  the  bust 
near  the   stair   railings— reading   which  we    know  that 
lobby  as  we  know  our  own.    He  has  learned  from  Virgil 
and  from  Dante  their  habit  of  comparing  great  things  with 
small,  and  making  an  abstract  or  poetic  conception  spring 
to  sudden  reality  by  a  metaphor  drawn  from  the  workaday 
world.    Thus  in  the  Feast  of  Famine,  the  spirit  of  evil 
moving  the  savages  to  wicked  designs  in  the  dark  heat  of 
a  tropical  night,  is  compared  to  the  sweltering  baker,  work- 
ing alone  anaidst  the  sleeping  city  in  his  kneading  trough. 
Sometimes  this  unexpected  introduction  of  homely  and 
familiar  things  comes  upon  us  with  what  is  little  less  than 
a  brutal  assault  on  the  imagination.    Duncan  Jopp  stands 
his  trial  before  Weir  of  Hermiston,  and  afterwards  goes  to 
the  gallows,  with  a  soiled  rag  of  flannel  round  his  sore  throat 
—and  we  instinctively  resent  the  shock  that  flannel  gives 
us.    In  this,  from  Idand  Nights  Entertainments,  it  is  even 
harsher— 'With  that  I  gave  him  the  cold  steel  for  all  I 
was  worth.    His  body  kicked  under  me  like  a  spring  sofa, 
he  gave  a  dreadful  kind  of  a  long  moan,  and  lay  still.'    It 
w,  perhaps,  difficult  to  forgive  him  for  these  and  the  like; 
it  is  at  least  impossible  to  forget  them.    They  are  the  work 
of  that  vision  in  detail  which,  with  or  against  our  will, 
enslaves  the  memory.     The   same  vividness   appears   in 

117 


I  f- 
i'r 


i    i  '*-it^ 


Li! 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVENSON 

many  pleasanter  metaphors,  such  as  that  curious  and  in- 
tricate imagination  in  Lay  Morals,  ot  a  man  attempting  with 
cords  and  p^  to  mark  out  the  boundary  of  the  shadow  of 
a  great  oak,  lying  abroad  upon  the  ground  at  noon,  perfect, 
clear,  and  apparently  stable  like  the  earth,  but  really  fleeing 
with  all  its  multiplicity  of  leaves  before  the  travelling  sun. 
That  also,  in  all  its  detail,  he  has  seen.  In  such  a  line  as 
this,  from  The  House  Beautiful — 

'A  shivering  pool  before  the  door' 

we  feel  the  wind  of  the  naked  moors,  and  again  note  the 
power  of  exact  observation  that  has  revealed  to  us  a  thing 
at  once  so  familiar  and  so  unremarked. 

A  faculty  of  observation  like  this  seldom  goes  with  large 
and  unified  grasp  of  the  whole  situation.  The  man  of  facts 
and  isolated  impressions  is  usually  incapable  of  taking 
'conjunct  views.'  He  knows  the  wall-paper,  but  has 
missed  the  landscape.  Stevenson's  greatest  achievement  as 
mere  man  of  letters  is  that  he  has  combined  the  two 
faculties  in  so  remarkable  a  degree.  In  Weir  of  Hermiston 
this  reaches  its  greatest  perfection.  The  most  marvellous 
thing  iu  that  great  novel  is  its  combination  of  exquisiteness 
of  detail,  with  a  continuous  and  proportioned  grasp  of  the 
main  purpose  and  large  design.  It  is  an  achievement 
which,  had  it  not  been  actually  accomplished,  might  well 
have  been  pronounced  impossible.  It  is  the  wedding  of 
pre-Baphaelite  with  impressionist  art,  each  at  its  highest 
point  of  excellence. 

The  intensity  of  his  vision  may  be  illustrated  best  by  his 
delight  in  colour,  and  his  skill  in  its  literary  manipulation. 
That  delight  in  vividness  which  is  so  often  gratified  in  his 
unbridled  use  of  language,  finds  its  visual  counterpart  in 
the  passionate  colour-work  illuminating  every  book  of  his. 
There  was  once  a  corner  shop  in  Leith  Walk,  which  has 
118 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 

given  ns  that  essay  in  Memories  and  PortraiU-~eveT  the 
favourite  with  Edinburgh  boys— the  inimitable  Id. plain  and 
2d.  coloured..  Its  successor  is  no  longer  dark,  nor  does  it 
'  smell  of  Bibles '  like  Mr.  Smith's  old  shop.  But  what  glory 
of  improvement  will  ever  thrill  the  heart  again  an  did  those 
small-paned  windows  of  long  ago  ?  '  One  Penny  ?lain  and 
Twopence  Coloured ' — it  was  not  only  an  advertisement  of 
certain  pasteboard  properties  of  a  toy  theatre ;  it  was  life 
itself  in  a  nutshell.  So  it  was,  at  least,  to  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson ;  and  whoso  would  understand  this  riddle  must  go 
to  the  essay  named,  and  read  it  with  as  much  as  may  be  of 
the  fervour  with  which  we  used  to  read  its  title  in  that  shop- 
window.  Postage  stamps  there  were  too  in  that  window, 
and  postage  stamps  then  were  but  beginning  to  come  to 
their  kingdom.  The  soul-satisfying  colours  of  them  (for 
the  early  stamps  were  more  aggressive  than  later  issues), 
the  quaint  devices  of  foreign  birds  and  American  engines,  the 
triangular  Cape  of  Good  Hopes,  the  dainty  little  Victorian 
halfpenny  sta..  .  Vese  were  side  by  side  with  the  now 
classical  adveru  :  .t,  as  if  to  prove  its  scale  of  values 
just. 

But  enough  of  this.  SufiSce  it  that  from  those  days  to 
the  end  of  his  life  Stevenson  gladly  paid  his  extra  penny  for 
the  colour.  All  through  his  manhood  he  amused  himself 
with  the  colouring  of  prints.  His  soul  leapt  to  the  splendour 
of  crimson  lake  rnd  shrank  in  superstitious  dread  from  a 
certain  shade  of  brown.  When  he  desires  a  silencing 
epithet  for  finest  action  he  can  say  no  more  than  that  it  is 
better  thx*^  ^jurple.  Whether  it  was  the  luscious  depth  of 
colour  in  jewels,  or  '  the  trivial  brightness  of  white  paint ' 
on  lighthouse  buildings,  his  heart  loved  it.  In  a  youthful 
essay  he  appreciates  the  peacock  as  affording  the  most 
satisfying  colour  in  nature  to  the  lust  of  a  man's  eyes,  and 
he  heightens  the  effect  by  a  masterly  background  of '  stone- 

119 


i ) 


Hfil 


■  ■  ii  i 


LllLii 


1 


M 


! 


iih!:. 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBYBNSON 

coloured  heavens  and  russet  woods,  and  grey-brown  plough- 
lands  and  white  roads.'  Towards  the  end,  his  ideal  of  style 
grew  more  chastened  and  severe.  '  I  like  more  and  more 
naked  writing,'  he  tells  us  in  1893 ;  'and  yet  sometimes  one 
has  a  longing  for  full  colour.'  Fortunately  for  us,  the  long- 
ing was  generally  gratified.  We  see  him  illuminating  the 
South  Seas  with  a  red  sash  worn  round  his  waist,  and 
describing  the  shells  and  fish  of  the  lagoons  until  they  seem 
to  flash  out  in  rainbows.  At  need  he  can  use  colour  with 
fearsome  power,  as  when  he  introduces  the  old  man  of  Arcs, 
the  whites  of  whose  eyes  were  'yellow,  like  old  stained 
ivory,  or  the  bones  of  the  dead';  or  Mountain,  with  his 
*  eyeball  swimming  clear  of  the  lids  upon  a  field  of  blood- 
shot white ! ' 

But  we  might  go  on  for  many  pages  illustrating  from  his 
colour-work  the  intensity  of  his  powers  of  vision.  One 
more  note  must  suffice  for  this  preliminary  part  of  our 
study.  We  have  already  noticed  how  it  is  his  custom  to 
introduce  surprising  collocations  of  words  apparently  incon- 
gruous. It  is  his  most  characteristic  figure  of  speech,  and 
it  illustrates  perfectly  the  combination  of  exactness  with 
intensity  of  vision.  In  such  phrases  as  '  looking  upon  the 
bright  face  of  danger,'  and  many  others  of  the  same  kind, 
we  have  exactness  in  the  choice  of  individual  words, 
intensity  in  the  general  effect  of  brilliance  given  by  tlie 
combination.  In  the  remaining  part  of  the  present  chapter 
we  shall  have  abundant  opportunity  for  observing  these 
characteristics  as  we  further  illustrate  the  gift  of  vision 
along  its  most  apparent  lines. 

Most  obvious  of  all  is  his  physical  love  of  light.  There 
is,  in  the  old  garden  at  Swanston,  a  tree  now  moribund  and 
clamped  up  with  bands  of  iron,  on  which  are  to  be  seen  the 
carved  letters  T.S.,  his  father's  initials.  Above  them  is 
the  emblem  4^  of  'The  Rising  Sun.'  The  little 
120 


Mi.; 


K 


THE    GIFT    OP    VISION 

engraving  is  not  without  some  touch  of  that  cleverneBS 
which  is  manifest  in  the  work  executed  later  at  Dayos.    Its 
emblem  is  for  him  the  most  appropriate  in  the  world.    The 
lore  of  light  was  hereditary  with  him,  for  the  ancestral 
Smiths  had  illuminated  the  city,  while  the  Steveniions  had 
illaminated  the  sea.    In  his  camp  in  the  Cevennes  we  have 
ft  clear  picture  of  the  small  lamp  lit  amidst  the  wide  dark- 
ness, 'The  light  was  both  livid  and  shifting;  but  it  cut 
me  off  from  the  universe,  and  doubled  the  darkness  of  the 
surrounding  night'    It  is  in  thoughts  connected  with  the 
play  of  light  and  darkness  that  the  physical  sensitiveness 
and  intensity  of  Stevenson  are  found  at  their  utmost    His 
fondness  for  biilliance,  his  physical  necessity  for  brightness, 
is  everywhere  unmistakable.    No  better  proof  of  this  could 
be  cited  than  the  strong  effect  produced  on  him  by  dark- 
ness.   At  night  in  Silverado  he  goes  out  to  the  platform 
for 'a  bath  of  darkness'— a  phrase  whose  sensuous  fulness 
of  meaning  is  seen  by  contrast  with  the  great  splash  of 
candle-light  falling  through  the  window  upon  the  thicket 
and  the  overhanging  rock.    Darkness  usually  produces  a 
kind  of  physical  horror  in  him.    The  bitterest  depths  of 
the  Master  of  Ballantrae  and  Deacon  Brodie,  are  expressed 
in  the  thought  of  '  the  old  familiar  faces  gone  into  darkness.' 
There  is  nothing  in  all  his  work  more  significant  than  the 
reappearance  in  Admiral  Guinea  of  the  blind  man  Pew 
from  Treasure  Island.     As  we  hear  his  approaching  foot- 
steps,  with  the  stick  beating  the  ground,  and  expect  another 
exhibition  of  his  keen  and  sinister  character,  we  perceive 
the  mingled  pity  and  horror  with  which  the  man  of  vision 
is  attracted  to  the  blind. 

The  surprising  possibiUties  of  lamp-light  and  candle-light 
are  explored  with  a  wealth  of  imagination  which  would 
yield  material  for  a  very  fascinating  monograph.  Some- 
times it  is  the  mere  brightness  of  the  light  that  forms  the 

121 


HI 


11  (I 


I# 


>ii 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STBYENSON 

attraction.  One  is  startled  by  the  vividness  of  metaphor 
when  the  limbs  of  a  sufferer  are  said  to  be  'lighted  up' 
with  torturing  pain.  The  drive  through  a  city  delights  him 
by  its  flashing  street  lamps,  and  especially  by  those  more 
gorgeous  luminaries  that  send  their  shafts  of  overpowering 
colour  from  chemists'  windows.  He  would  have  his  house 
at  Yailima  lighted  up  full  blaze  in  his  absence,  that  he 
might  enjoy  the  luxury  of  its  brightness  as  he  returned 
through  the  dark.  He  loves  the  phantasmagoria  of  lamp- 
light— 'the  lurching  sphere  of  light'  divided  by  the  shadow 
of  the  man  who  bears  the  lantern  across  the  field.  He 
thus  describes  a  night-scene  on  the  verandah  at  Yailima: 
'  The  faces  of  the  company,  the  spars  of  the  trellis,  stood 
out  suddenly  bright  on  a  ground  of  blue  and  silver,  faintly 
designed  with  palm-tops  and  the  peaked  roofs  of  houses. 
Here  and  there  the  gloss  upon  a  leaf,  or  the  fracture  of 
a  stone,  returned  an  isolated  sparkle.  All  else  had  vanished. 
We  hung  there,  illuminated  like  a  galaxy  of  stars  in  vacuo; 
we  sat,  manifest  and  blind,  amid  the  general  ambush  of  the 
darkness.'  The  fragment  entitled  The  Great  North  Road 
abounds  in  such  Rembrandt  impressions.  In  it  the  ostler's 
lantern  lets  up  'spouts  of  candle-light  through  the  holes 
with  which  its  conical  roof  was  peppered.'  The  mail-coach 
arrives  from  the  south,  and  '  its  lamps  were  very  large  and 
bright,  and  threw  their  radiance  forward  in  overlapping 
cones.  ...  the  body  of  the  coach  followed  like  a  great 
shadow ;  and  this  lit  picture  slid  with  a  sort  of  ineffectual 
swiftness  over  the  black  field  of  night'  The  fantastic  play 
of  lights  may  even  lend  itself  to  the  weird  and  gruesome 
so  as  to  produce  strong  effects.  The  evil  spirits  that  haunt 
the  woods  of  Samoa  seem  quite  indisputable  wheu  yon 
walk  '  by  the  moving  light  of  a  lantern,  with  nothiug  about 
you  but  a  curious  whirl  of  shadows,  and  the  black  night 
above  and  beyond.'  All  the  world  knows  now  of  the  duel 
122 


THE    GIFT    OP    VISION 

by  candle-light  in  the  groanda  of  the  house  '^f  Durriadeer ; 
the  idea  aeema  to  have  appealed  strongly  to  Stevenson's 
imagination,  for  a  candle  standa  burning  also  on  the  gravel 
walk  of  a  second  house,  in  M  Ttrayfield,  vrithin  which  a  dead 
man  lies  in  hie  blood.  In  another  mood,  he  tarns  for 
sentiment  to  lamps  again — the  street  lamps  of  Edinburgh, 
not  seen  directly,  but  reflected  in  her  wet  streets — though 
the  pathos  is  even  keener  when  he  remembers  the  fainter 
•sheen  of  the  rainy  streets  towards  afternoon.'  Lights  of 
candles  and  of  lamps  supply  him  with  some  of  his  most  vivid 
metaphors,  and  not  a  few  of  the  innermost  secret  places  of 
his  thought  and  emotion  are  illuminated  by  them.  The  sight 
of  Olalla  extinguishes  in  her  lover  his  romantic  fancy  for 
the  portrait,  which  'had  fallen  dead,  like  a  candle  after 
sunrise.'  Nance,  in  l%e  Great  North  Road,  draws  her  finest 
moral  from  the  tale  of  a  strange  land  where  they  used  to 
run  races  with  lighted  candles— '  that  was  like  life :  a  man's 
good  conscience  is  the  flame  he  gets  to  carry,  and  if  he 
comes  to  the  winning  post  with  that  still  burning,  why, 
take  it  how  you  will,  the  man's  a  hero.'  The  finest 
example  i&  in  The  Lantern- Bearers,  but  of  that  we  shall 
judge  later  on. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  there  is  much  reference  to  light- 
houses, and  the  passages  which  mention  them  seldom  fail 
to  show  an  exaltation  of  spirit  that  draws  the  writing  to 
its  own  high  level.  The  location  of  the  lighthouse  inspirits 
him,  set  up  in  the  air  among  heather  over  which  sea-birds 
fly.  Underwoods  has  some  memorable  descriptions,  amoug 
which  the  following  is  perhaps  the  finest : 


I 


If! 


'  Eternal  grauite  hewn  from  the  living  isle 
And  dowelled  with  brute  iron,  rearB  ^  tower 
That  from  its  wet  foundation  to  its  crown 
Of  glittering  glass,  stands,  in  the  sweep  of  winds, 
ImmoTable,  immortal,  eminent.' 


193 


1^ 

I'-" 


'!* 


THE    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    BTBYENSON 

In  another  poem,  published  only  in  2%«  JBdinburgk  Edi- 
tion, The  Light-Kttpir  thus  desoribee  ^\n  station : 

•  The  briliUnt  InnMl  of  th«  aigkl, 

The  flftkniBg  Ught-ioom  cird«  m* : 
I  lit  within  a  Uue  of  light 
Hold  high  aboTO  tho  doaky  aoa.  .  .  .' 

Passing  from  artificial  lights  to  natural,  we  find  him,  like 
the  lone  seaman  of  the  rhyme,  sailing  astonished  among 
stars.  If  it  be  the  case  that  many  of  his  most  vivid 
impressions  are  shown  by  the  light  of  lanterns,  it  is  equally 
true  that  much  of  his  most  moving  work  is  done  by  8tar< 
light  The  green  islands  and  the  bright  sea  would  not  be 
to  him  what  they  are  if  it  were  not  for  those  'forty 
million  stars '  that  shine  upon  so  many  of  his  scenes  '  with 
an  imperial  brightness.'  And  the  stars,  like  the  street 
lamps,  acquire  a  new  beauty  when  we  see  them  reflected 
in  water.  Now  it  is  a  lagoon,  bright  with  ten  thousand 
of  them,  now  a  star-reflecting  harbour,  that  are  shown. 
Tlie  hero  of  one  tale  stoops  and  drinks,  putting  his  mouth 
to  the  level  of  a  starry  pool;  or,  descending  the  rope 
in  his  escape  from  the  castle,  he  sees  '  the  stars  overhead, 
and  the  reflected  stars  below  liim  in  the  moat,  whirling 
like  dead  leaves  before  the  tempest.' 

Mconlight  does  not  affect  him  so  strongly.  Once  indeed, 
he  speaks  of  the  '  exhilarating  lustre '  of  the  moon  in  winter 
but  even  that  is  not  strong  enough  to  satisfy  him,  and 
moonlight  generally  serves  as  a  background  uf  indistinct 
beauty  for  some  more  vivid  sight  '  The  burning  valley  by 
NMonlight'  he  delights  in,  and  the  clean-edged  tracery 
visible  when  'the  moon  drew  shadows  of  trees  on  the 
naked  bodies  of  men.'  Daylight  and  the  sun  are  more  to 
his  mind,  and  the  day's  flash  and  colour  that '  flames,  dazzles 
and  puts  to  slet^.'  Every  phase  of  it  is  known  to  liim,  from 
dawn  yellow  as  sulphur  in  the  Pacific;  on  through  the 
124 


ilh 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 

{^nisb  morning  hour,  when  the  whole  face  of  nature  is 
'aoiteiely  smiling,  the  hearens  of  a  cold  bine,  and  sown 
with  great  olond  islands,  and  the  mountain-sides  mapped 
forth  into  provinces  of  light  and  shadow';  down  to  the 
nnset  embers  and  the  'indigo  twilight,  starred  with  street- 
lamps,'  of  the  Edinburgh  evening. 

In  his  descriptiins  of  landscape  and  natural  scenery,  we 
note  the  same  combination  of  exactness  and  intensity 
which  is  characteristic  of  all  his  vision.  Mr.  Comford,  in  his 
Stiert  louts  Sttvetuon,  has  a  chapter  entitled  '  The  Limner 
of  Landscape,'  in  which  he  brings  together  as  remarkable 
a  collection  of  such  descriptions  as  could  well  be  compiled. 
Some  of  Stevenson's  pictures  are  marked  by  that  pure  and 
simple  sense  for  Nature — that  love  of  Nature  for  her  own 
sake— which,  since  Wordsworth,  has  been  so  great  and 
beautiful  an  element  in  our  literature.  These  again  and 
again  remind  us  of  the  classical  contrast  in  the  Famiiy  of 

Engineers  between  his  father's  point  of  view  and  his  own : 

'The  river  was  to  me  a  pretty  and  various  spectacle;  I 
could  not  see— I  could  not  be  made  to  see — it  otherwise.  To 
my  father  it  was  a  chequer-board  of  lively  forces,  which  he 
traced  from  pool  to  shallow  with  minute  appreciation  and 
enduring  interest'  Certainly  the  loss  to  engineering  has 
been  abundantly  compensated  by  the  gain  to  letters. 

Tet  it  is  but  seldom  that  his  descriptions  of  Nature  have 
either  the  detachment  or  the  repose  of  Wordsworth.  They 
come  in  passionate  flashes,  often  with  an  effect  of  startling 
brilliance  and  poignancy.  To  illustrate  this  by  quotations 
would  tempt  us  farther  afield  than  our  limits  permit,  but 
almost  any  of  the  Nature-work  in  Silverado  Squatters  or 
Prince  0«o— and  in  these  it  is  at  its  best— will  furnish 
examples.  From  the  latter  volume,  the  night  scene  in  the 
forest,  to  which  Cornford  justly  gives  the  palm,  offers  us 
the  clue.    'This  slow  transfiguration  [the  dawn]  reached 

125 


!   f   I 

ii 


-ii 


III 


iru 


THI    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    8TIVBN80M 

her  hetrl  and  pkyed  npon  it,  and  traoapieroed  it  with  i 
Mri(  til  thrilL  She  looked  all  about,  the  whole  face  of 
Nature  looked  back,  brimful  of  meaning,  finger  on  lip,  leak- 
ing ita  glad  aeorei'  That  ia  not  Nature  in  henelf,  but 
Nature  aa  ahe  is  in  the  experience  of  a  human  aoul.  It  ii 
the  BubjectiTe  element  that  givea  ita  peculiar  value  to 
Stevenaon'a  viaion  of  Nature.  Not  only  do  the  natural 
aettinga  adapt  themaelvea  to  the  human  intereat  and  follow 
the  change  of  incident — that  ia  but  a  neceaaity  of  fiction 
common  to  all  noveliata,  whoae  privilege  it  ia  to  arrange 
their  own  weather.  In  a  far  more  intimate  aenae  ii 
Stevenaon'a  Nature>work  aubjeotive.  In  Tke  Woodman  we 
have  the  whole  foreat  of  Vailima  quickened  into  eemi- 
human  life  and  conaciouaneaa,  with  a  reault  m  sinister  and 
rncanny  aa  could  well  be  conceived.  The  toothless  and 
killing  aenaitive-plant,  plucked  by  the  green  hair,  shrinks 
back— 

'  And  stndniiig  by  his  uiehor-stnuid 
C*ptar«d  knd  loratched  the  rooting  hand. 
I MW  him  oroach,  I  felt  him  bite.' 

Straightway  the  woodman's  eyes  are  opened,  and  he  knows 
the  life  of  the  wood  from  within — ^half-human,  half- 
demoniac.  The  House  Beautiful  is  the  finest  example  on 
the  pleasant  side.  In  itself  bare  and  bleak.  Nature  is  there 
aeen  by  the  poetic  eye,  so  as  to  attain  with  no  other  help 
than  that  of  the  days'  and  seasons'  change,  to  incomparable 
pomp  and  splendour,  the  wizardry  of  moonlight,  and  the 
enchanted  beauty  of  frost 

In  his  descriptions  of  the  city  which  he  loved  best,  he  is 
peculiarly  happy.  Princes  Street  lies  under  oar  eye,  in 
'  mild  sunshine,  and  the  little  thrill  of  easterly  wind  that 
tossed  the  flags  along  that  terrace  of  palaces.'  Leith  Walk 
is  the  atone  gully  up  which  the  north  wind  rashes  upon 
the  city.  The  old  town  builds  itself  up,  on  a  misty  day, 
136 


THB    GIFT    OF    YIBIOK 

Imon  *boTe  hooM,  fitting  its  •rohitectun  to  the  eontovr  of 
Um  nek  until  the  whole  leema  to  be  of  a  piece.  In  enoh 
work  the  enbjeotiye  element  hee  been  eapplied  alreedy 
by  the  art  of  men.  Again,  in  hie  delineation  of  itorma  at 
M,  Sterenaon  ia  at  hie  Tory  beet  It  ia  probably  no 
•uggeration  to  uj  that  nothing  erer  written  haa  excelled 
the '  Harrioane '  chapter  in  A  Fdotnoh  to  Eiatoty  or  the  race 
of  the  NonA  Ortina  in  the  Wrteker.  The  secret  of  these  is 
esi7  to  discoTer,  for  it  is  the  experience  of  the  storm 
rsther  than  the  men  commotion  of  the  elements,  that  is 
deiotibed:— 'The  sqnall  itself,  the  catch  at  the  heart,  the 
opened  slaioee  of  the  sky;  and  the  relief,  the  renewed 
loveliness  of  life,  when  all  is  over,  the  snn  forth  again,  and 
oar  oat-fooght  enemy  only  a  blot  npon  the  leeward  sea.' 
'The  frightened  leaps  of  the  poor  Norah  Creina,  spanking 
like  a  stag  for  bare  existence  .  .  .  Overhead  the  wild  hunts- 
man of  the  storm  passed  continuously  in  one  blare  of 
mingled  noises;  screaming  wind,  straining  timber,  lashing 
rope's-end,  pounding  block,  and  bursting  sea.'  When  the 
scene  to  be  described  is  of  a  quieter  character,  he  often 
introduces  some  very  strongly  outlined  piece  of  foreground, 
to  give  distinction  and  human  interest  to  his  picture.  A 
stranded  ship  in  the  strong  sun  under  a  cloud  of  sea-birds, 
or  'a  huge  truncheon  of  wreck  half-buried  in  the  sands,'  are 
but  specimens  of  many  similar  expedients  for  sharpening 
the  picture  to  exactness  and  intensity.  The  finest  example, 
and  one  of  the  best  pieces  of  description  he  ever  wrote,  is 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  /7ytny  Scud  caught  by  the  searchers 
in  The  Wrecker.  For  a  n^o'^ent,  among  high  waves,  a 
vista  opens,  and  they  see  'the  masts  and  tigging  of  a  brig 
pencilled  on  heaven,  with  an  ensign  streaming  at  the  main, 
and  the  ragged  ribbons  of  a  topsail  thrashing  from  the  yard.' 


!  i 


-■n\ 


137 


n 


!•< 


*<1 


fi 


U-: 


ri 


i 


THB    FAITH    OF  R.   L.   8TIT1N80M 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  oiFT  OF  visioM  {continued) 

HATUfo  8«0n  ih«  splendid  beginniBg  of  the  Gift  of  Vition 
in  the  phjiical,  we  hare  now  to  see  ite  spiritual  develop, 
ment  in  imsginetion  and  insight  Imeginetion  was,  in 
Stevenson's  own  ecooont  of  himself,  an  intoxicating 
pleasure,  so  intense  as  sometimes  to  weaken  or  even  to 
destroy  the  sense  of  reality.  'It  is  quite  possible,'  he 
affirms,  'and  even  comparatively  easy,  so  to  enfold  oneself 
in  pleasant  fancies  that  the  realities  of  life  may  seem  but  u 
the  white  snow-shower  in  the  street,  that  only  gives  a  relitb 
to  the  swept  hearth  and  lively  fire  within.'  .  .  .  This  t>ower 
of  imagination  affected  his  inner  life  in  many  directions. 
It  'painted  images  brightly  on  the  darkness';  it  'put  au 
edge  on  almost  everything';  and  on  it  he  counted  in  many 
trying  times  for  heartening  and  refreshment.  Sometimes 
it  forsook  him,  and  then  he  was  left  derolate,  with  the  taste 
for  all  other  things  than  its  lost  splendours  blunted  and 
enfeebled ;  but  in  the  main  it  abode  faithful.  A  scientific 
paper  on  The  Thermal  Injluenet  of  ForetU,  written  for  a 
Soyal  Society,  might  seera  to  promise  little  but  statistics. 
Tet  we  have  hardly  begun  to  read  it  when  we  find  ourselves 
iu  '  the  crypt  of  the  forest,'  and  the  whole  treatise  illustrates 
the  value  of  poetry  to  science. 

The  simplest  exercise  which  involves  the  play  of  imagina- 
tion is  memory — the  recalling  of  images  received  in  the  past 
Tite  further  exercise  of  constructing  images  of  facts  that  lie 
128 


[Mil 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 

btjood  oor  aotual  aipwrience.  is  closely  connected  with 
memory,  for  it  is  oat  of  fragments  of  images  once  Mtaelly 
KceiTed  that  we  an  able  to  constmot  new  wholes. 
Imsgioation,  exercised  in  either  of  these  two  ways,  may  be 
called  perception  t»  oiemtio— perception  of  what  is  there 
only  as  idea  and  not  in  outward  material  fact— and  the 
{aeolty  of  such  perception  was  in  Stevenson  developed  to  an 
exceptional  degree.  One  example  of  simple  imagination  of 
the  past  we  have  already  noted  in  his  vivid  recollection  of 
the  inmost  feelings  and  the  minutest  details  of  life  as  seen 
throngh  the  eyes  of  a  little  child.  Another  is  the  accuracy 
snd  the  poignant  force  of  his  thoughts  of  home  from  abroad. 
Nothing  could  snrpaas  the  quality  of 

'Onj  rteambtnt  tombi  of  th*  dead  in  dMtrt  plaeei, 

SUnding  ttones  on  the  vacftnt  wine-red  moor, 
Hilli  of  dMtiH  and  homee  of  the  lilent  Ttniahed  noes 
And  windi,  Mutere  and  pore.' 

Tet  these  lines  are  dated  from  Vailima.  From  Vailima 
Wtir  of  Eermitton  also  comes  to  us,  and  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  there  is  no  novel  in  the  language  which  has  more  per- 
fectly expressed  the  colours  and  the  forms  of  Scottish  moor- 
land. The  great  field  of  the  hills  is  there,  with  plover  and 
curlew  and  lark  crying  down  the  wind,  and  hill-tops  that 
'huddle  one  behind  another,  like  a  herd  of  cattle,  into  the 
sunset.'  Where  else  shall  we  go  in  books  to  find  just  such 
'a  great  rooty  sweetness  of  bogs  in  the  air,  and  at  all 
seasons  such  an  infinite  melancholy  piping  of  hill  birds '  ? 
As  to  constructive  imagination,  all  his  novels  are  a  proof  of 
that,  and  almost  everything  else  which  he  has  written.  One 
example  must  suflBce,  and  that  a  quite  casual  and  unlaboured 
one.  Writing  to  Austin  Strong,  and  having  nothing  in 
particular  to  say.  he  fills  his  letter  with  a  description  of 
those  profoundest  depths  of  the  ocean  in  which  life  b^ns 
to  reappear  again  below  the  zone  of  death.    He  describes 

I  129 


'1 


'"-'  -     '-^ 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSON 


'our  flimsy  fellow-creataiea,'  the  fiah  that  live  in  these 
lowest  places,  held  together  hj  the  great  weight  of  water, 
but  bursting  into  tatters  long  before  they  can  be  brought  to 
the  surface.  '  But  I  dare  say,'  he  adds, '  a  cannon  sometimes 
comes  careering  solemnly  down,  and  circling  like  a  dead 
leaf.'  There  is  a  specimen  of  visual  imagination  than  which 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  more  interesting  or  character- 
istic. 

The  wealth  and  variety  of  a  writer's  imagination  lie 
very  largely  in  the  development  of  his  mind's  faculty  for  the 
so-called  'association  of  ideas.'  All  of  us  have  immeiue 
reserves  of  impressions  stored  somewhere  in  the  brain ;  but 
they  are  stored  as  it  were  in  separate  compartments,  and  do 
not  come  forth  readily  at  the  command  of  new  impressions. 
^Genius  has  been  defined  as  the  power  of  seeing  likenesses  and 
relations  among  things.  If  that  be  a  sound  definition  it  must 
be  admitted  that  Stevenson  was  a  genius  of  the  first  rank. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  but  to  open  the  doors  of  his  mind, 
and  cognate  impressions  would  press  and  throng  in  to  the 
side  of  the  one  idea  already  in  possession,  crowding  the 
stage  of  thought  from  every  quarter  of  experience  and 
knowledge.  Each  new  idea  seems  to  have  '  thrown  down  a 
barrier  which  concealed  significance  and  beauty,'  and  to 
have  revealed  a  new  world  of  relations. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  examples  of  this  is  his  treat- 
ment of  the  subject  of  Treasure.  Every  reader  must  have 
remarked  how  often  it  occurs.  In  Treasure  Island,  Tk 
Wrecker,  The  Merry  Men,  The  Matter  of  Ballantrae,  The 
Treasure  of  Franchard,  and  many  other  stories,  either  the 
interest  centres  on  this,  or  it  forms  the  most  conspicuous 
feature  after  the  plot.  Its  emphasis  is  as  remarkable  as  is 
the  absence  of  the  customary  love  plot.  Stevenson  has  been 
blamed  for  this,  and  indeed  it  is  utterly  unlike  his  char- 
acter. Generous  and  lavish  to  a  fault,  miserliness  is 
130 


THE    GIFT    OF    VISION 

assuredly  the  vice  for  which  he  needs  least  of  all  to  blash. 
The  explanation  is  that  Treasure  has  recondite  secrets  of 
sttractiTcness.  When  we  read  of  the  man  who  'by  the 
blaze  of  a  great  fire  of  wreckwood  measures  ingots  by  the 
bncketfol  on  the  uproarious  beach,'  we  can  see  plainly  that 
the  writer's  interest  in  the  treasure-hunting  was  a  more 
picturesque  one  than  that  of  avarice.  It  was  obviously  the 
ancient  Saxon's  delight  in  his  buried  hoard  of  rings  and  cups 
of  gold;  delight  in  the  glitter  and  sparkling  beauty  of  what 
is  rich  and  rare  and  bright,  and  not  in  its  commercial  value. 
But  The  Treasure  of  Franchard  gives  the  real  clue.  The 
value  of  treasure  is  a  spending  and  not  a  hoarding  value ;  it 
signifies  the  delightful  things  which  it  will  buy.  'You 
have  no  imagination,'  cried  the  doctor.  ♦  Picture  to  yourself 
the  scene.  Dwell  on  the  idea— a  great  treasure  lying  in 
the  earth  for  centuries:  the  material  for  a  giddy,  copious, 
opulent  existence  not  employed,'  and  so  on— dresses, 
pictures,  horses,  castles,  parks,  ships,  'all  lying  unborn  in  a 
coffin— and  the  stupid  trees  growing  overhead  in  the  sun- 
light,  year  after  year.' 

A  further  step  leads  us  to  Personification,  which  here 
must  be  understood  in  its  widest  sense,  viz.  the  endowing  of 
an  object  with  the  life  or  nature  proper  to  another  class  of 
objects.    By  this  means  a  new  spirit  may  transform  the 
old  idea,  as  if  new  blood  went  tingling  down  its  veins.    It  is 
a  trick  of  imagination  closely  akin  to  that  collocation  of 
apparently  incongruous  ideas  which  we  have  already  noticed, 
and  it  has  an  extraordinary  power  of  heightening  the  value 
of  an  impression.    In  Child^a  Play  he  recalls  the  miracle  by 
which  cold  mutton  suddenly  became  appetising  when  the 
child  had  agreed  with  himself  to  call  it  venison.     Mutton  is 
at  best  but  dead  sheep;  venison  implies  a  Uve  huntsman. 
One  of  the  quaintest  and  most  beautiful  passages  in  An 
Inland  Voyage  likens  Noyon  Cathedral  to  an  old  battleship, 

181 


m 


.Ji--ii-tkk 


i 


t      '  aJB-gtmg 


m 


Mm  Si 
ill  ' 
||,|K      p 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    8TBVBN80N 

poink  for  point;  wid  the  ohuioh  guns  immenae  intemt 
from  the  compariwn.  So  does  that  cond  leef  of  which  we 
read  that  it  is '  sunk  to  the  gwiVxUe  in  the  ocean.'  The  wind, 
with  Stevenson,  is  always  a  kind  of  Erlking  or  mystic  horse- 
man;  the  shadows  are  species  of  ineffective  domestic  genii. 
Destiny,  when  we  read  of  her  'hand  of  brass,'  gains  much 
the  same  fearsomeness  which  belongs  to  Fenimore  Cooper's 
Water  Wiiek,  and  the  brasen  leaves  of  her  book  of  fate. 
Farther  instances  innumerable  might  be  quoted,  but  we  add 
only  one,  in  which  the  itaUcised  words  give  a  personification 
worthy  of  Homer.    It  is  flrom  the  Feast  of  Famine : 

<■  AU  day  long  f torn  the  high  plwe,  the  drome  and  the  singing  came, 
And  the  eren  feU  and  the  enn  went  down,  a  wheel  of  flame ; 
And  night  oame  gUaiM^  tiU  *«*>«««  wd  hnshing  the  sounds  of  Uu 
wood.' 
In  this  connection   the   most   interesting  fact   of  aU 
U   that  of   'the   Brownies '—the   help  which  Stevenson 
acknowledges  that  he  received  in  dreams.    For  the  details 
of  this,  we  must  refer  the  reader  to  one  of  his  most  charming 
essays,  the  Chapttr  on  Dreams.    Suffice  it  to  say  that  to  this 
source  he  traces  two  of  his  most  brilliant  pieces  of  imagin- 
ative  work.  Dr.  JekyU  and  Mr.  Hyde,  and  OUMa.     The 
subject  is  an  extremely  curious  one,  and  it  has  been  dit 
cussed  by  most  of  those  who  have  written  about  him.    The 
one  point  which  appears  to  be  significant  for  our  present 
purpose  is  that  this  phenomenon  shows  us  the  author  as  a 
recipient  rather  than  a  creator.    Dreams  may  be  regarded  at 
the  complex  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings  released  from  the 
directing  and  controlling  power  of  will,  undistracted  by 
casual  impressions  of  the  external  world,  and  so  left  abso- 
lutely subject  to  the  play  of  involuntary  physical  processw 
which  may  awaken  them  to  consciousness  and  direct  their 
sequence.    There  was  a  time  when  all  dreams  were  regarded 
as  revelations,  and  men  lay  down  to  sleep  in  sacred  places, 

isa 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 


that  they  might  be  able  to  secure  rach  gifts  of  revelatioB 
from  the  gods.  Psychology  has  changed  all  that,  apparently ; 
and  yet  perhaps  the  change  is  not  so  great  after  all.  The 
religious  man  owns,  in  theory  at  least,  that  all  his  powers 
are  gifts  from  above.  Tet,  when  the  exercise  of  a  faculty 
involves  strong  and  deliberate  effort  of  will,  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  exertion  gives  the  man  an  apparent  claim 
to  the  faculty ;  the  slighter  the  action  of  will,  the  more 
obviously  does  he  perceive  the  faculty  to  be  indeed  a  gift; 
in  dreams  the  apparent  claim  is  gone,  and  the  fact  that  our 
powers  are  not  onr  own  is  manifest.  This  in  itself  looks 
toward  a  religious  meaning,  and  keeps  a  man  from  forgetting 
that  he  can  boast  of  nothing  which  he  has  not  received. 

It  would,  indeed,  be  vain  to  look  for  any  very  definite 
ethical  or  religious  message  which  his  dreams  revealed  to 
Stevenson.  '  I  do  most  of  the  morality,  worse  luck ! '  he 
tells  us, '  and  my  Brownies  have  not  a  rudiment  of  what  we 
call  a  conscience.'  The  nearest  approach  to  religious  revela- 
tion is  in  the  parable  which  he  sometimes  finds  in  a  dream. 
'Sometimes  I  cannot  but  suppose  my  Brownies  have  been 
aping  Bunyan,  and  yet  in  no  case  with  what  would  possibly 
be  called  a  moral  in  a  tract;  never  with  the  ethical  narrow- 
ness ;  conveying  hints,  instead,  of  life's  larger  limitations, 
and  that  sort  of  sense  which  we  seem  to  perceive  in  the 
arabesque  of  time  and  space.'  The  psychologist  will  have 
no  difBculty  in  explaining  the  part  which  Bunyan  played  in 
the  dreams  of  so  faithful  a  student  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
Yet  that  in  no  way  alters  the  fact  that  the  effect  of  such 
dreams  upon  a  man  like  Stevenson  must  be  a  more  or  less 
definite  consciousness  of  a  Oiver  to  whom  he  owes  all  his 
best.  At  times  this  evidently  amounts  to  a  sense  of  sacred- 
ness  in  his  hours  of  literary  inspiration.  It  is  a  principle 
always  very  definitely  realised  and  proclaimed:  'The  true 
ignorance  is  when  a  man  does  not  know  that  he  has  received 

ISS 


!ii 


M 


I! 


n 


t  /^^4^ 


w  r' 


TBI    FAITH    OF    R.   L.   STBYBN80N 

a  good  gift,  or  begins  to  imagine  that  he  has  got  it  for  him- 
self. The  self-made  man  is  the  funniest  windbag  after  all! 
There  is  a  marked  difference  between  decreeing  light  in 
chaos,  and  lighting  the  gas  in  a  metropolitan  back  parlour 
with  a  box  of  patent  matches ;  and  do  what  we  will,  there  is 
always  something  made  to  our  hand,  if  it  were  only  otu 
fingers.'  Thus,  idong  the  whole  range  of  vision,  this  true 
seer  confesses  that  he  can  rightly  lay  daim  to  none  of  all 
the  powers  that  are  within  him. 

Peicelying  his  power  of  vision  to  be  a  gift,  he  set  no 

bounds  to  the  freedom  with  which  he  looked  and  saw 

around  him.     In  strangely  opposite  directions  the  gift  of 

vision  intensified  his  life.    The  most  obvious  and  perhaps 

the  most  familiar  of  these  is  his  imagination  of  the  ghadly 

and  horriHe.    In  his  tales  and  in  some  of  his  other  work 

there   is   a  surprising,  and   often  quite  an  unnecessary 

amount  of  murder  and  of  bloodshed.     Cold  steel  flashes 

and  then  grows  warm  in  groaning  flesh ;  the  spine  cracks, 

and  the  body  falls  slack  in  the  grasp  of  strong  hands; 

blood  flows  and  clots,  wounds  gape  and  the  livid  flesh 

changes   colour,   with   that  shameless   nakedness   which 

England  first  learned  from  the  songs  of  pagan  Saxons.    In 

such  a  tale  as  The  Black  Arrow  no  chapter  is  complete  till 

it  has  added  to  the  pile  of  corpses.    In  the  fights,  men  go 

down  like  ninepins,  and  the  Wrecker  is  not  the  only  hero 

of  his  who  learns   to  'entertain  and  welcome  the  grim 

thought  of  bloodshed.'    Sometimes  the  horror  is  drawn  out 

in  a  leisurely  paragraph  of  the  SotUh  Seas  which  becomes 

almost  unreadable ;  again  it  fiashes  forth  in  a  single  lurid 

sentence  like  that  of  the  murderer  Villon  in  A  Lodging  for 

the  Jftght:  'What  right  has  a  man  to  have  red  hair  when 

he  is  dead?' 

Death  itself,  in  all  its  crude  realism,  is  much  in  evidence; 
and  the  morbid  interest  in  its  paraphernalia  which  is 
134 


THB    GIFT    OF    VISION 

ohuaoteriBtio  of  a  certain  ^rpe  of  Scottish  folklore,  is 
nnsparingljr  introduced.  From  the  bloody  winding-sheet  of 
the  Covenanter,  and  the  grim  loquacity  of  Scottish  grave- 
diggers,  to  the  long  baskets  at  the  feasts  of  cannibals  and 
their  drums  in  whose  tramp  you  hear '  the  beat  of  the  heart 
of  death,'  the  sinister  interest  is  passed  on.  Even  as  a 
child,  playing  beside  a  churchyard,  he  discovers  a  light  in  a 
cranny  of  the  retaining  wall,  and  wonders '  whether  the  hole 
inerced  right  through  into  a  grave,  and  it  was  some  dead 
man  who  was  sitting  up  in  his  coffin  and  watching  us  with 
that  strange  fixed  eye.' 

>ior  does  death  end  aU.  He  deals  freely  in  the  horrors 
which  inhabit  the  region  beyond  the  grave.  Spectral 
presences  that  haunt  the  imagination  are  familiar  in  the 
greater  part  of  his  work,  but  especially  in  the  Scottish  and 
the  South  Sea  writings,  between  which  they  form  an  uncanny 
link  of  connection.  As  in  so  many  families  of  Scotland, 
this  element  was  hereditary  with  him.  In  A  Family  of 
JBngineers  two  stories  are  told  of  apparitions  of  the  dead 
»een  in  ariieulo  mortis  by  ancestors  of  his  own.  Old  cove- 
nanting superstitions  of  flames  rising  from  certain 
graves,  gruesome  l^nds  of  haunted  houses,  particular 
forms  of  demons  like  the  brown  dog  described  in  the 
CkapUr  on  Dreams,  are  introduced  with  unmistakable  zest. 
In  the  South  Seas,  we  find  ourselves  again  in  islands 
'beleaguered  by  the  dead,'  in  ghost-haunted  and  devil- 
haunted  woods,  in  the  midst  of  a  people  who  live  in  fear 
of  magicians,  and  who  look  upon  their  recently  buried  dead 
as  new '  ogres  loosed  upon  the  isla'  Few  passages,  even  of 
his  Samoan  work,  are  written  with  a  more  sympathetic 
touch,  than  that  which  describes  the  struggle  with  the  mad 
Paatalise,  who  had  met  his  dead  brother  in  the  bush.  '  And 
remember!'  he  says,  'we  are  fighting  the  dead,  and  they 
[the  black  boys  of  the  household]  had  to  go  out  again  in  the 

1S6 


iii 


if 


II 


'ii 


'iM 


THE    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STBYBNSON 


blaok  night,  which  is  the  dead  man'i  empiie,'  though  they 
believed  the  man's  ravings,  and '  kimo  that  his  dead  taxoWy, 
thirty  strong,  crowded  the  front  verandah  and  called  on  him 
to  come  to  the  other  world.'  The  palm  goes,  however,  with- 
out doubt  to  the  Scottish  work  of  this  kind.  Tod  Lapraik 
and  Thrawn  Janet  are  immortal  spectres.  Of  them  he  says 
that  if  he  had  never  written  anything  else,  'still  I'd 
have  been  a  writer.'  Of  that  there  can  be  no  question. 
Tod  Lapraik  dances  on  the  Bass  Bock  still  for  all  readers  of 
Catrioma.  Who  has  ever  forgotten  the  scene  in  Thravm 
Janet,  where  Mr.  Soulis  is  standing  beside  his  candle  at  the 
stairfoot  ?  '  A  foot  gaed  to  an'  fro  in  the  ohalmer  whaur  the 
corp  was  hingin' ;  syne  the  door  was  opened, — though  he 
minded  wed  that  he  had  lockit  it ;  an'  syne  there  was  a  step 
upon  the  landin',  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  corp  was 
lookin'  ower  the  rail  an'  doon  upon  him  whaur  he  stood.' 

His  skill  and  freedom  in  the  manipulation  of  super- 
natural machinery  is  very  great.  The  sustained  horror  of 
Dr.  JekyU  and  Mr.  Hyde  alone  is  proof  of  this.  No  con- 
ceivable imagination  cottld  be  more  precarious  than  that 
story,  80  close  does  it  keep  to  the  edge  over  which  the  sub- 
lime falls  suddenly  to  the  ridiculous.  A  slip  at  any  point 
might  have  made  the  situation  not  only  grotesque  but 
fatuous.  Yet  the  story  retains  its  power  unbroken  to  the 
end.  At  times — so  masterful  is  his  handling  of  super- 
natural terrors — ^he  intentionally  relieves  the  strain;  as 
when  the  Master  of  Ballantrae,  apparently  chiming  in  with 
Mackellar's  fears,  asks  him  if  he  knows  what  the  sudden 
dash  of  rain  forebodes,  and  answers  his  own  question— 
'  that  there  '11  be  a  man  Maokellar  unco'  sick  at  sea.' 

Yet  it  may  be  questioned  whether  he  ever  attains  per- 
fection  in   his   management  of  the  ghastly.    The  most 
powerful  effect  can  only  be  reached  by  way  of  reticence 
and  suggestion,  and  Stevenson  saw  too  clearly  to  be  quite 
136 


THl    GIFT    OF    VISION 

mtster  of  thst  Mi  He  can  mtke  you  see  a  hombl«  image 
with  a  yividness  which  few  writers  can  match.  The  aubtlar 
power  of  making  you  tremble  at  what  yon  cannot  see,  is  not 
Dtaally  at  his  command.  To  this  extent  his  gift  of  vision 
overreaches  itself,  and  fails  because  of  its  extraordinary 
luccess. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  has  an  eye  for  beauty  as  keen  as  his 
perception  of  its  opposite.   Many  passages  quoted  elsewhere 
show  not  only  how  vivid  but  how  full  of  beauty  the  world 
appeared  to  Stevenson.   It  was  his  favourite  task  to  explore 
and  point  out  the  wayside  beauty  that  lies  all  around  us. 
His  essay  on  Walt  Whitman  exhibits  him  in  the  company 
of  a  most  congenial  spirit    In  many  ways  the  thought  and 
purpose  of  the  two  are  one ;  yet  nothing  in  that  essay  is 
more  significant  than  the  criticism  in  its  latter  part    Every 
reader  of  Whitman  ku  ?W8  the  large  and  reckless  manner  in 
which  he  tumbles  great  things  and  small  together  in  huge 
heaps,  that  he  may  appreciate  and  delight  in  the  whole 
contents   of   the    universe.    Kothing  could   be  more  to 
Stevenson's  taste  than  this,  and  he  blames  Whitman,  not 
for  his  intention,  but  for  the  unconvincing  way  in  which  it 
is  carried  out    It  is  not  enough  to  praise  the  hill-tops  and 
the  factory  in  one  breath,  the  stately  shiiM  in  the  harbour 
and  the  contents  of  the  hatter's  shop.    To  Stevenson  as  to 
Whitman   all   these  miscelhneous   facts   are  capable  of 
revealing  beauty,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  writer  to  make 
that  beauty  plain.    But  to  do  this  more  is  required  than  a 
rollicking  catalogue  of  miscellar.aous  articles.    'To  dtow 
beauty  in  common  things  is  the  work  of  the  rarest  tact    It 
is  not  to  be  done  by  the  wishing.'    The  critic  knew  this  as 
only  one  could  know  who  had  himself  laboured  hard  at 
such  work  of  the  rarest  tact     He  proves  this  beyond 
•iispute  in  ITu  Souse  Beautiful,  which  is  a  well-nigh  perfect 
expression  of  beauty  in  common  things. 

137 


'  ''I 

1    ! 

'■''I 


IM 


ill: 


■^11 


U-Ai 


THB    VAITH    or   B.    !•■    S'llTBHBON 


41 


It  U  trae  that  looking  back  long  afterward  npon  his  life 
he  deicribes  his  ohaae  of  the  ideal  thus : 

•BtUl 
SoiMwheTa  on  th«  many  hill. 
Or  altng  A*  winding  ttimm 
Through  Um  willowi,  Site  «  diMun ; 
FUta  tet  ihows  ft  nailiiig  fhe*. 
F1«M  but  with  M  qnaint »  graoe, 
Nob*  oftB  okooM  to  ■toy  ftt  home, 
All  mnit  follow,  ftll  moat  roftm. 
This  is  nnbom  beftaty.' 

The  ohaae  is  vain,  though  it  ii  worth  while  Aa '  with  grey 
hair  we  atnmUie  on,'  the  viaion  f^es  awaj  at  lait,  never  to 
be  plainly  seen.  The  fading  of  the  seme  uf  beauty  in  timet 
of  ill-health  is  described  with  nnusnal  wealth  of  metaphor 
in  Ordered  South.  The  most  pathetic  part  of  the  invalid's 
experience  is  that  he  inhabits  a  disenchanted  world,  which 
he  knows  intellectually  to  be  beautiful,  but  whose  beantj 
he  no  longer  feels.  But  such  confessions  of  failure  are  proof 
of  extraordinary  success.  The  eye  is  not  satisfied  with 
seeing  because  it  knows  what  seeing  has  sometimes  meant 
Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  Stevenson  than  hii 
exacting  fastidiousness  in  his  search  for  beauty  and  for 
words  in  which  to  express  it  It  is  the  fastidiousness  of 
the  high  priest,  who  feels  a  certain  claim  and  proprietory 
right  in  the  shrine  If  we  may  quote  one  figure  at 
peculiarly  typical  of  his  vision  of  the  beautiful,  it  shall 
be  the  image  of  the  (harden,  which  occurs  in  his  boob 
almost  as  frequentiy  as  any  except  such  as  are  drawn 
from  the  battiefield.  Most  of  his  tales  have  one  garden- 
scene  at  least.  7%e  Ideal  House  has  a  passage  on  gardens 
quite  in  the  style  of  Bacon's  famous  essay.  Spiritualised, 
the  garden  stands  for  all  that  is  sweetest  and  gentlest  in 
the  inner  life  The  tortured  and  dying  Du  Chayla  declares 
that  his  soul  is  'like  a  garden  full  of  shelter  and  of 
138 


THB    GIFT    OF    YIBIOIT 

foontaini.'  '  It  is  •  thaggy  world '  we  read  in  Pa%'$  Pipea, 
'ud  jet  stndded  with  gardens ;  where  the  salt  and  ttunUing 
MS  receives  dear  rivers  running  from  among  reeds  and  lilies. ' 
The  ghastlj  and  the  beantiftil  are  combined  in  one  of 
his  favourite  and  most  charaoteristio  ideas.  We  have 
tlieadj  noted  how  subjective  his  treatment  of  Natore 
is.  He  openly  confesses  that  the  work  he  expects  his 
imagination  to  do  upon  natural  scenery  is  to  let  him  'see 
satyrs  in  the  thicket,  or  picture  a  highwayman  riding 
down  the  lane.'  The  highwayman  is  often  in  evidence, 
but  it  is  the  satyr  that  lends  to  Nature  her  peculiar 
meaning  for  him,  and  the  etching  of  a  satyr  among  zeeda 
prefixed  to  An  Inland  Voyage  is  the  work  of  rare  insight 
Pan's  Pipes  gives  the  key  to  this  almost  pagan  aspect  of  the 
world.  The  whole  of  that  wonderful  little  essay  is  concen- 
tnted  in  one  phrase  of  his  Inland  Voyage,  in  which  the 
mnsic  of  the  river-side  reeds  is  interpreted  as  the  sound 
that  tells  of 'the  beauty  and  the  terror  of  the  world.'  Of 
the  terror  he  is  acutely  conscious.  The  clearing  of  ground 
from  tropical  weeds  appears  as  a  battle  with  inhuman, 
spiteful,  snakelike  things,  and  fills  him  with  a  superstitious 
horror.  In  Weir  of  ffermiiton,  Kirstie  describes  how  the 
dead  body  of  the  would-be  assassin  is  taken  charge  of  all 
night  by  the  river,  which  'dunts'  the  dead  thing  on  the 
stones,  and  'gmnds'  it  on  the  shallows,  and  flings  it  head 
over  heels  at  the  waterfall.  And  yet  this  cruel,  lewd,  and 
treacherous  Nature  is  full  of  the  most  tender  beauty  all  the 
time.  Ad  overhanging  branch  had  caught  him,  and  he 
was  left  clinging  to  it  while  his  canoe  went  down  the  Oise. 
He  felt '  what  a  dead  pull  a  river  makes  against  a  man. 
Death  himself  had  me  by  the  heels.  ...  The  devouring 
element  in  the  universe  had  leaped  out  against  me  in  this 
green  valley  quickened  by  a  running  stream.'  Then  he 
realised  the  mystery  of  Nature  that  could  be  at  once  so  cruel 

139 


V'l 


1 1 

m 


ih 


iiilil 


TBI    VAITH    OV  R.   L.    ST1TIN80N 

and  10  bMatifnl.  ThL  oombination  o(  tenor  and  beauty 
la  ynj  froqiMDtly  introdnoad,  and  it  ia  eTidently  one  of  the 
conoeptiona  whidi  moat  deeply  impraaaed  hia  imaginatimi. 

All  that  conoerna  na  at  the  preaent  atage  ia  that 
SteTonaon'a  viaion  both  of  the  ghaatly  and  the  beautifnl 
waa  intenae  and  dear.  In  a  certain  aenae  he  ia  a  realitt^ 
though  not  even  anoh  Tague  tenna  m  realiat  and  idealiat 
can  define  him.  He  ia  a  realiat  in  ao  far  aa  he  reoorda  the 
facta  of  lifb  aa  they  appear  to  him,  impartially,  and  with- 
out aeleotion  of  thoee  which  anit  the  pnrpoeea  of  some 
particular  view.  There  ia  another  aenae  in  which  the  tern 
realiam  ia  aometimea  nnderatood.  Under  the  pretext  of  an 
impartial  record,  thia  realiam  tacitly  aelecta  the  ugly  and 
the  evil  facta,  and,  with  great  oatentation  of  courage  and 
aincerity,  offera  theae  for  ita  picture  of  life  aa  it  actually  ii. 
The  fallacy  ia  obviona,  and  auoh  realiam  ia  but  the  inverted 
form  of  that  ao^salled  idealiam  which  aelecta  the  pretty  and 
the  innocent  facta  for  ita  whole  picture.  There  ate  times 
when  one  tremblea  to  think  what  the  work  of  Stevenson 
might  have  been,  had  he  choaen  to  b  a  realiat  of  thii 
latter  aort  In  aome  rare  inatancea,  *  a  aa  The  Wrong 
Box,  with  ita  very  ugly  atory  of  the  t*  J.^  ela  of  a  dead  body 
in  a  paoking-caae,  he  makee  ua  feel  againat  our  will  the 
attraction  which  the  ugly  might  have  had  for  him.  In  a 
letter  to  a  friend  he  dedarea  that  if  that  atory  is  not 
funny,  he  doea  not  know  what  ia.  But  this  ia  in  no  way 
repreaentative.  He  poura  Ida  acorn  upon  that  kind  of 
literature  in  which  the  ugly  ia  dt  rigueur.  He  is  true 
U  himaelf  when,  in  approaching  the  leper  ialand,  he 
deacribea  hia  feelinga :  '  My  horror  of  the  horrible  is  about 
my  weakeat  point ;  but  the  moral  loveliness  at  my  elbotr 
blotted  all  else  out'  The  truth  ia  that  though  he  an- 
queationably  delighta  in  the  horrible,  it  ia  not  because  of 
ita  horror  but  beoauae  of  ita  conapicuouaneaa.  Vision  ia 
140 


ii  ■ 


IL 


THB    GIFT   OF   VISION 

Ui  giwl  fUlighl  and  tteong  dwin.  What  thtrt  k  to  im 
ia  (hii  mingled  world,  h*  will  Mt,  and  what  ia  moat 
fiTid  will  fint  oatoh  hia  aja.  ObTionaly  tha  tarror  and 
the  baantj  of  tha  world  ara  ita  moat  oonapicuow  pointa, 
•ad  aocoidinglj  ha  aaaa  and  ahowa  tham.  Bat  tha  apadal 
merit  of  hia  writing  ia  that  it  haa  inaiatad  on  the  eon- 
■pioaoameea  of  beauty.  It  ia  a  oheap  and  aaey  way  of 
enliating  intereat  which  the  horrible  afforda;  and  without 
•trennoaa  effort,  deecriptiona  of  the  beantifol  are  apt  to  be 
dalL  He  haa  pat  forth  hia  atrength  to  ahow  that  beanty 
oay  be  made  aa  conapiouooa  aa  ngliueaa,  aa  brilliant  aa 
hoiror.  To  have  aacoeeded  in  thia  ia  to  have  rendered  a 
great  lenrioe  to  literature. 

When  we  paaa  on  to  the  aphere  of  paychology  and  of 
moral  and  ipiritnal  Tidon,  we  take  bat  a  short  step,  and 
the  change  is  hardly  perceptible.  The  pointa  of  similarity 
between  the  two  regiona  are  ao  many,  that  the  word 
innght  is  hardly  a  metaphor  as  regards  StcYenson's 
highest  life,  and  the  same  powers  anil  elTects  which  we 
hsTe  already  noted  are  still  observable.  Indeed  he  has  a 
way  of  linking  together  natural  colouring  and  emoUooal 
experience  with  peculiarly  subtle  skill,  and  often  with  great 
effect  The  ancient  singers  of  Walea  were  wont  to  alternate 
»  line  about  the  wind-blown  reeda,  the  river,  or  the  trees, 
with  the  patriotic  or  moral  sentiments  of  their  poems,  in  a 
Iwhion  which  Professor  Maason  uaed  to  call '  the  flag  and 
feeling  device.'  Thia  we  may  aometimea  find  in  Stevenson, 
u  when  he  gives  his  memorable  account  of  the  atudent 
leading  night  and  day  for  hia  examination.  On  the  morning 
of  the  examination  day  he  rose  firom  his  books  and  pulled 
up  hia  blind  in  a  jocund  humour.  'Day  was  breaking, 
the  esst  waa  tinging  with  strange  fires  '—a  nameless  temw 
«eued  upon  him,  and  when  he  came  to  the  examination 


ti' 


In 


^i  Ji#i' 


1 

f 
1 

1 

1 

^ 

,  i 

i 

ii 


TUB    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    STIYFHSON 

ball  he  had  (orgotton  his  Mine.  In  lik*  auuMr  'ctniigi 
Aim'  m.^ny  a  tiiM  illaniiiate  StoTWMon'i  mental  pfetunt, 
u.;  oliiu  .  with  them  in  the  reeder'a  memory. 

:  c  Jia-.vJten  of  his  teles  ere  notable  for  their  firmneii 
KDi  'uir  iUtline.  'Thete  was  nothbg  oblique  or  vagnt 
ai  out  yim.  What  he  saw  he  saw,  and  what  he  saw  he 
ecaUI  dpft^ribe.'  "^'ot  onlj  are  his  men  and  women  olearlj 
xm  },  .'  ey  .t.  4>t  In  one  of  his  books  'they  became 
d(y  '^h((\  f  m  !'ie  flat  paper,  they  turned  their  backs  on  ne, 
aur  walk  .'  •  ••  bodily.'  In  another,  certain  questions  as  to 
the  levelctin  .M>  of  the  plot  must  answer  thetnselTee '  when 
I  get  near  enou^'^U  to  see.'  Nor  was  this  Tision  of  men  and 
women  merely  urtistio.  'I  am  at  bottom  a  psychologist,' 
be  tells  us.  The  insight  shown  in  his  psychological  analysii 
is  as  penetrating  as  his  artistic  work  is  brilliant  and  har- 
monious. His  delight  is  in  '  looking  through  a  window  into 
other  people's  lires,'  and  'lifting  up  their  roofs'  that  he  mij 
see  what  is  going  on  in  their  house  of  life.  So  great  ii 
this  power,  and  so  constantly  is  it  exercised,  that  it  is  un- 
necessary to  offer  illustrations.  Open  any  page  of  his  work 
at  random,  and  whatever  may  be  absent  it  may  be  safely 
prophesied  that  yon  shall  find  some  evidence  of  thif«,  It 
was  in  Weir  of  Hermiaton  that  it  reached  its  greatest,  and 
Professor  Sidney  Colvin  writes  of  that  book,  'If  in  the 
literature  of  romance  there  is  to  be  found  work  more 
masterly,  of  more  piercing  human  insight  or  more  con 
centrated  imaginative  vision  and  beauty,  I  do  not  know  it' 
We  know,  for  example,  the  heart  of  the  elder  Kirstie — and 
what  a  heart  it  is! — and  we  know  its  play  of  concealed 
and  half-conscious  motives,  and  the  irrationalities,  and  the 
secret  fears,  and  the  passion  suppressed  within  iron  bands; 
we  know  these  things  as  we  read,  with  a  certainty  which 
surprises  us  at  every  page,  and  yet  which  never  fails  to 
convince  us  in  any  detail. 


if 


TBI    GIFT    OF    TI8ION 

IIm  aonl  iuight  ii  vrtn  mon  txtnwidiiiMy.     Th« 
dncw  of  th«  Artist  ii  that,  finding  the  Mtaal  faoti  of 
the  moril  world  inhumonioM,  ho  ihoald  ohange  their 
mphMii  and  grouping  to  soit  hie  taste.     'A  man  of 
iBMgination/  says  Dr.  Desprei,  'ie  nerer  moral;  he  out- 
MNUff  literal   demaroatione,  and  review*  life  under  too 
■any  shifting  lights  to  rest  content  with  the  invidious 
dirtinotions  of  the  Uw.'  But  Stevenson  can  write  on  morals 
nnder  a  plain  white  light    His  descriptions  are  often  given 
in  words  carefully  weighed  aad  chosen  not  for  effect  but 
for  sccuracy.    In  no  part  of  his  work  is  be  less  the  actor 
than  in  this.    The  result  for  tht  reader  U  a  succession  cif 
•urpriaing  revelations,  in  which  he  oonstenUy  recognises 
himseif  or  some  other,  though  he  has  never  had  them 
expressed  before.    We  know  what  Stevenson  means  when 
he  divides  luen  into  the  two  classes  of  those  who  incline  •  to 
think  aU  things  rather  wronff.'  and  those  who  suppose  them 
'  right  mmgh  far  aU  pnutieal  pnrpota.'    We  have  met  the 
man  of  whom  he  says, '  Convictions  existed  in  him  by  divine 
right;  they  were  virgin,  unwrought.  the   brute  metal  of 
decision.'    Who  can  forget  the  Master  of  BaUantrae  '  worm- 
ing himself  with  singular  dexterity '  into  the  famU y  troubles, 
'  as  the  hand  of  a  bone-setter  artfully  divides  and  interrc  ^ates 
the  muscles,  and  setUes  strongly  on  the  injured  place'?  or 
Frank  Innes,  whose  practice  it  was  '  to  approach  any  one 
person  at  the  expense  of  some  one  eUe '  ?    •  Hf  offered  you 
an  aUiance  against  the  some  one  else;  hi  dat  ered  you  by 
slighting  him ;  you  were  drawn  into  a  small  ntrigue  against 
him  before  you  knew  how.'    The  cas.    I  notes  on  character 
»re  oaen  startling,  revealing  men  to  themselves  at  ruptly  as 
with  a  sudden  challenge.    One  man.  in  whon-.  we  had  been 
watching  the  progress  of  what  we  took  to  be  asanitv.  turns 
out  not  to  have  gone  out  of  his  mind, '  but  t..  have  drifted 
from  character.'    The  irritation  which  to  'mo  frequently 

14» 


1 1 


Ii" 


.nil 
I 


■  i 


r 


la 


■tmwi 


I    5 

I    1 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8TBVBN80N 

the  uppermost  feeling  on  the  siokneM  of  those  dear  to  us,' 
and  the  anger  which  is  kindled  within  ns  'against  those 
who  make  themselyes  the  spokesmen  of  plain  obligations,' 
ue  other  cases  in  point 

His  best  work  is  done  when  he  finds  himself  face  to  face 
with  complex  moral  situations  in  which  ordinary  judgmenta 
fail  US,  and  we  need  a  subtler  and  a  clearer  insight  than 
that  of  most  men  to  let  us  see  the  case  exactly.     The 
supreme  instance  of  this  is  that  passage  in  his  Esaay  m 
Bunu,  which  is  at  once  one  of  the  most  courageous  and 
one  of  the  truest  things  he  ever  wrote.    It  is  the  passage  in 
which  he  describes  the  man  (if  we  may  paraphrase  another 
of  his  sayings)  as  playing  sedulous  ape  to  two  consciences. 
•  It  is  the  punishment  of  Don  Juanism  to  create  continually 
false  positions— relations  in  life  which  are  wrong  in  them- 
selves and  which  it  is  equally  wrong  to  break  or  to  per- 
petuate.  ...  It  was  true  he  could  not  do  as  he  did  without 
brutally  wounding  Glarinda;  that  was  the  punishment  of 
his  bygone  fault;  he  was,  as  he  truly  says,  "damned  with 
a  choice  only  of  different  species  of  error  and  misconduct" 
...  If  he  had  been  strong  enough  to  refrain,  or  bad  enoti^ 
to  persevere  in  evU ;  if  he  had  only  not  been  Don  Juan  st 
all,  or  been  Don  Juan  altogether,  there  had  been  some 
possible  road  for  him  throughout  this  troublesome  world; 
b     a  man,  alas!  who  is  equally  at  the  call  of  his  worse 
and  better  instincts,  stands  among  changing  events  without 
foundation  or  resource.' 

In  the  moral  sphere  we  see  the  same  characteristics  u 
have  been  already  noted  under  the  general  subject  of 
imagination.  The  delight  in  brilliance  for  its  own  sake 
runs  through  sU  his  work,  and  here,  as  elsewhere,  it  give* 
the  strongest  possiMe  effects  both  in  the  ghastly  and  the 
beautiful  He  is  artist  as  well  a«  moralist,  and  though  it 
is  true,  as  we  said  on  the  preceding  page,  that  in  msnjr 
144 


THE    OIPT    OP    VISION 

euw  he  worla  at  the  moral  sitnatioos  with  the  enthnsiasm 
oft  purely  ethical  interest,  yet  he  does  not  ever  quite  sink 
tiie  artist  in  the  man  of  conscience.  He  is  artist  still,  and 
artist  in  the  manner  of  Rembrandt,  deal'i^  in  high  lights, 
and  even  darkening  his  shadows  to  ere-        lem. 

Of  the  ghastly  side  of  morals  he  treats  with  freedom 
and  mastery.    Sometimes  the  horror  is  conveyed  in  sugges- 
tions, as  in  the  JTerry  Men,  but  usually  it  is  of  the  broadest 
kind.    Nothing  could  be  more  loudly  proclaimed  than  the 
terrific  moral  tragedy  in  The  Bottle  Itnp  or  Dr.  Jek^U  and 
Mr.  Eyde.    And  this  introduces  a  further  point,  of  much 
interest  in  itself,  and  closely  paraUel  to  that  delight  in 
the  truculent  and  sanguinary  which  is  so  frequent  in  his 
novels,  vis.  the  two  or  three  wholly  unrelieved  pctures  he 
has  given  us  of  ugly  and  disgusting  sin.    Deacon  Brodie  is 
hardly  a  case  in  point,  though  he  comes  very  near  it. 
Much  as  the  Deacon  interested  Stevenson,  he  resisted  the 
temptation  to  make  him  a  hero,  in  any  sense  'magnificent 
iam:    The  Matter  of  Ballantrae '  is  aU  I  know  of  a  devil,' 
he  tells  us.    Maokellar's  gorge  sometimes  '  rose  against  him 
as  though  he  were  deformed,  and  sometimes  I  would  draw 
away  as  though  firom  something   partly  spectral.'     The 
m  Tide  is  the  darkest  example,  and  it  has  been  much 
criticiaed  for  its  portrayal  of  unrelieved  moral  ugliness. 
He  himself  regarded  it  with  increasing  disgust  as  it  went 
on.  He  heaps  upon  it  such  adjectives  as  'devilish,'  'grimy,' 
•nd  'rancid,'  and  says, '  There  are  only  four  characters,  to  be 
rare, but  they  are  such  a  troop  of  swine!'    In  Huish  he 
has  probably  touched  bottom  in  the  possibilities  of  describ- 
ing an  unmitigated  cad.    In  this  connection  a  curious  fact 
may  be  noted,  vis.  the  recurring  allusions  to  certain  wholly 
bad  men  he  had  met  in  real  lifa    He  persuaded  Fleeming 
Jenkin  against  his  will  that  such  a  man  existed.    It  may 
he  presumed  that  it  is  that  same  man  whom  he  describes  in 

K  146 


(t 


in 


lliW 


llil 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

the  lurid  sketch  A  CharaeUr.  By  1887  he  seems  to  hare 
met  two  such  men.  In  the  Qilbert  Islands  he  met  another, 
whom  he  descrihes  as  an  incarnation  of  baseness.  These 
were  to  him  hatefully  impressive,  with  'a  depravity  beyond 
measure  depraved,  a  thirst  after  wickedness,  the  pure,  dit 
interested  love  of  Hell  for  its  own  sake.' 

This  lingering  over  the  sheer  nastiness  of  sin  has  been 
commented  upon,  and  indeed  we  are  all  thankful  that  then 
is  so  little  of  it  in  his  work.   Yet  whatever  Art  may  have  to 
say,  the  moralist  must  be  thankful  for  it    Fra  Angelico  is 
an  eternally  lovely  sonl,  but  the  moral  condition  of  the 
world  demands  a  man  who  can  paint  a  devil.    The  devil- 
pictures  of  some  of  the  greatest  geniuses  in  literature  hin 
been   failures  when  judged  by  the  moralist's  standird. 
Milton's  Satan  is  only  too  'mi^;nifioent  in  sin';  Gtoethe'i 
Mephistopheles  is  so  clever  and  interesting  as  almost  to 
justify  his  existence.  Stevenson's  devils  are  loathsome ;ud 
their  sin  is  not  only  exceeding  sinful,  but  utterly  unpleasant 
We  have  the  right  to  claim  such  work  as  showing  genuine 
D'oral  purpose,  though  he  may  not  have  stated  this  to  him- 
self as  a  definite  aim.    His  own  conscience  of  evil  is  never 
obtruded,  but  the  rare  confessions  which  we  have  are  elo- 
quent of  its  depth.    Once,  by  an  error  of  memory,  he  had 
broken  faith  with  one  of  his  publishers,  and  it  cut  him  to 
the  quick.    He  felt  iimself  involved  in  dishonour,  and  bt 
could  not  sleep  for  the  misery  of  the  thought.    'You  re- 
member my  lectures  on  Ajax,  or  the  Unintentional  Sin?' 
he  writes.    'Well,  I  know  all  about  that  now.    Nothing 
seems  so  unjust  to  the  sufferer ;  or  is  more  just  in  essence.' 
Again  there  is  this,  from  one  of  the  prayers :  '  Help  us  to 
look  back  on  the  long  way  that  Thou  hast  brought  us,  (n 
the  long  days  in  which  we  have  been  served  not  according 
to  our  deserts  but  our  desires ;  on  the  pit  and  the  miry  d^, 
the  blackness  of  despair,  the  horror  of  misconduct,  firom 
146 


THE    GIFT    OP    YISION 

which  onr  feet  ha^e  been  plucked  out  For  our  sine  for- 
given  or  prevented,  for  our  shame  nnpnbliehed,  we  bless 
and  thank  Thee.  O  God.'  These  extracts  throw  some  light 
on  his  delineation  of  badness  nnrelieved  bj  anything  that 
makes  it  attractive,  and  the  following  fragment  of  a  fine 
paisage  taken  from  his  preface  to  Men  and  Books  states  his 
attitude  definitely:  'And  when  we  find  a  man  persevering 
indeed,  in  his  ftinlt,  as  all  of  us  do,  and  openly  overtaken,  as 
not  all  of  ns  are,  by  its  consequences,  to  gloss  the  matter 
over,  with  too  polite  biographers,  is  to  do  the  work  of  the 
wrecker,  disfiguring  beacons  on  a  perilous  seaboard.' 

Not  less  noteworthy  is  his  delight  in  moral  beauty  and 
his  power  in  depicting  it     He  took  to  heart  Fleeming 
Jenkin's  reply  to  his  proof  that  one  man  was  irredeemably 
bad:  'Yes,  I'm  afraid  that  m  a  bad  man.    I  wonder  if  it 
isn't  a  very  unfortunate  thing  for  you  to  have  met  him  .  .  . 
this  badness  is  such  an  easy,  kzy  explanation.    Wont  you 
be  tempted  to  use  it  instead  of  trying  to  understand  people  ? ' 
One  of  the  two  men  he  "t.  Id  not  forgive  '  was  he  who  first 
taught  me,  in  my  twenty-seventh  year,  to  believe  that  it 
was  possible  for  a  man  to  be  evil  with  premeditation.'    In 
morals,  the  kind  of  realism  which  selects  the  unclean  and 
ugly  for  attention,  is  a  most  leprous  spirit.     Yet  it  is 
always  sure  of  an  audience,  for  vice  has  a  strong  interest 
of  its  own,  and  virtue  has  for  some  no  beauty  that  they 
should  desire  it     There  is  no  diviner  task  than  that  of 
making  goodness  appear  fascinating,  and  changing  from  a 
pious  phrase  to  a  v^vid  reaUty  'The  Beauty  of  Holinees.' 
That  Stevenson  himself  felt  this,  there  can  be  no  question. 
' Love  is  so  startlingly  real'  in  his  view  ' that  it  takes  rank 
upon  an  equal  footing  of  reality  with  the  consciousness  of 
P«nonal  existence    We  are  as  heartily  persuaded  of  the 
identity  of  those  we  love  as  of  our  own  identity.'    And 
again:  'Such  things  as  honour  and  love  are  not  only  nobler 

14T 


-n 


ni 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBN80N 


than  food  and  drink,  but  indeed  I  think  we  desiie  them 
more,  end  suffer  more  sharply  for  their  abeenoe.'  The  aitiat 
in  him  came  to  his  aid  in  enforcing  this,  as  well  as  the 
converse  doctrine.  As  many  later  extracts  will  show,  he 
succeeded  in  adding  brilliance  to  the  thonj^t  of  goodness. 
He  did  this  by  the  air  of  chivalry  with  which  he  invested  it 
He  found  his  examples  among  knights  and  admirals ;  and 
in  making  himself  the  champion  of  righteousne«  he  seems 
to  have  sworn,  like  William  the  Conqueror,  by  the  splendour 
of  God.  Such  a  poem  as  Ow  Lady  of  the  Snows  gives  this 
impression  at  its  full  brilli&nce.  His  good  men  and  women 
are  veritable  saints  in  b'ght,  winsome  and  heroic  both.  Tim 
in  itself  is  no  small  matter;  indeed  it  would  be  difficult 
to  exaggerate  the  value  of  this  one  service  to  morals.  It 
is  not  difficult  to  decry  sin  and  to  extol  goooness,  but  too 
often  the  result  is  but  to  make  sin  appear  interesting  and 
goodness  deadly  dull.  He  who  can  succeed  in  making  sin 
distasteful  and  virtue  not  merely  proper  but  fascinating 
has  done  much  for  that  healthful  belief  in  life  which  lies  at 
the  roots  not  only  of  morality  but  of  faith. 

Following  up  the  gift  of  v  ision,  we  come  finally  to  faith 
itself,  ie.  faith  in  the  theoretical  sense  as  distinguished  from 
the  practical,  in  which  it  appears  as  faithfulness.  Faith  in 
the  former  sense  has  been  variously  defined,  but  there  is  no 
definition  which  comes  so  near  exactness  as  that  of '  seeing 
the  invisible '^-a  new  and  higher  range  for  the  faculty  of 
vision.  The  controversy  between  faith  and  reason  is  an 
unmeaning  one.  Faith  is  a  kind  of  perception,  the  percep- 
tion of  a  certain  class  of  phenomena  called  the  spiritual. 
It  neither  contradicts  reason  nor  transcends  it,  for  the 
objects  of  fitith  are  actually  there,  and  perception  of  what  is 
really  there  is  part  of  reason.  Thus  faith  is  but  the  highest 
ezeroisa  of  the  gift  of  vision.  Such  a  view  of  faith  has 
important  consequences,  for  if  this  be  true  it  follows  that  a 
U8 


THE    GIFT    OF    VISION 


num  who  has  onltivated  his  powers  of  vision  with  snooeM 
along  all  the  lower  line*,  has  at  least  the  capacity  for  the 
higher  vision  also.  No  man  gifted  with  keen  powers  of 
mon  can  jostly  complain  that  faith  is  a  faculty  in  which 
he  is  impotent.  Thos  it  has  seemed  truest  to  Stevenson  to 
review  in  detail  the  gift  of  vision  as  exercised  in  r^ons 
apparently  remote  from  religion.  A  man's  faith  is  but  one 
phase  of  his  insight  He  sera  Qod  with  the  same  faculty 
which  reveals  to  him  the  other  facts  of  life.  Before  we 
concern  ourselves  with  the  details  of  what  a  man  has  seen 
in  the  religious  r^on,  it  is  well  to  ascertain  the  way  in 
which  he  looks  at  things  in  general,  and  the  power  of  seeing 
them  which  he  possesses.  The  blossoms  of  the  tree  of  life 
are  curious  and  beautiful,  but  the  roots  are  the  essential  tree. 
It  may  be  boldly  asserted  that  every  unprejudiced  man 
who  looks  searchingly  and  steadily  at  life  shall  sooner  or 
later  see  Qod.  Qod  is  no  phantasm ;  He  is  there,  and  those 
who  figdl  to  see  Him,  fail  because  they  have  not  looked 
fairly,  or  with  sufBiciently  intense  and  patient  gaze.  Steven- 
son, at  least,  had  the  reward  of  his  searcL  Quotations 
might  be  multiplied  at  great  length,  but  those  given  in 
Chapter  L  are  quite  conclusive  evidence  that  he  saw  God  in 
Nature  and  in  his  own  life's  experiences.  True,  it  was 
in  the  aspects  of  the  world  that  the  vision  was  revealed, 
rather  than  apart  from  and  beyond  them ;  yet  it  was  enough 
to  persuade  him  that '  there  is  a  manifest  God  for  those 
who  care  to  look  for  Him.'  At  times  the  spectacle  of  the 
world  is  all  that  is  visible,  and  he  cries : 


'  Qod,  if  this  were  •nongh, 
That  I  see  things  ban  to  the  buff  .  .  . 
God,  if  this  wen  faith  T' 

Apin,  the  conflicting  aspects  of  the  natural  world  appear 
to  deaden  for  a  time  the  vision  of  God : 

149 


•  11 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYINSON 

*  And  SMthooi^  tbat  bMMty  Md  tmw  U0  ooljr  oa%  Bol  two ; 
And  Ik*  worid  1mm  room  for  lav«,  ud  dMth,  tad  tkud«r,  aad  daw ; 
Aikl  aU  tho  oiMini  of  hdl  shmWr  ia  MowBtr  air ; 
Aikl  tht  freo  of  Ood  k  » took,  bat  tho  £uo  of  tho  nek  b  Adr.' 

At  all  timM  the  sense  of  mysteiy  kept  his  visioii  from 
OTer-fiuniliaritf  ,  end  eren  deprived  it  of  some  deaniess  of 
outline  whioh  it  nught  have  had  without  saorifice  either  of 
truth  or  of  reTorenoe.  Yet  the  vision  was  direct  and 
instinctive.  He  ridicules  the  man  who  counts  it 'a  credit 
to  believe  in  Qod  on  the  evidence  of  some  crack-jaw  phi- 
losopher, although  it  is  a  decided  slur  to  believe  in  Him  on 
His  own  authority.'  His  definition  of  Faith  is  explicit: 
'  Faith  is  not  to  believe  in  the  Bible,  but  to  believe  in  God ; 
if  you  believe  in  God,  where  is  there  any  more  room  for 
tenor?  ...  If  you  are  sure  that  God,  in  the  long  rui, 
means  kindness  by  you,  you  should  be  happy;  and,  if 
hapj^,  surely  you  should  be  kind.'  He  speaks,  through  the 
month  of  the  hero  of  his  Merry  Mm,  some  words  concerning 
prayer  which  have  an  unusual  wealth  of  significance:  'A 
generous  prayer  is  never  presented  in  vain;  the  petition 
may  be  refused,  but  the  petitioner  is  always,  I  believe, 
rewarded  by  some  gracious  visitation.  The  horror,  at  least, 
was  lifted  from  my  mind ;  I  could  look  with  calm  of  spirit 
on  that  great  bright  creature,  God's  ocean.'  In  these  words 
two  things  are  plain.  There  is  the  belief  in  a  direct  and 
personal  contact  with  the  Divine;  and  there  is  the  vision 
of  Qod  through  Nature.  It  is  but  one  of  countless  instances 
in  which  the  eyes  that  knew  so  well  their  task  of  seeing  the 
bright  spectacle  of  the  world,  had  caught  a  glimpse  beyond 
the  world  of  the  King  in  His  beauty. 


3 


'.siKmmaa'm 


160 


TfiS    INSTINCT    OF    TRAYBL 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE  INSTINCT  OF  TRAVEL 


Thx  Instinct  of  Travel,  like  the  Gift  of  Vision,  is  an  element 
in  human  nature  which  maj  be  traced  up  from  the  physical 
to  the  moral  and  spiritual  regions  of  life.  At  first  the  moods 
of  Vision  and  Travel  might  seem  to  be  opposed.  The  one 
is  passive,  regarding  life  as  a  spectacle,  the  other  active, 
thinking  of  it  as  a  campaign.  It  is  undeniable  that 
Stevenson  not  only  had  sympathies  with  both  moods,  but 
that  he  indulged  both  freely.  Now  he  is  artist,  now 
labourer;  now  French  ideals  claim  him  by  their  mere 
picturesqueness,  again  he  is  the  Scottish  Puritan  and 
Calvinist,  with  nothing  to  be  seen  about  him  but  the 
conscience  of  wof  k. 

It  would  be  easy  to  say  simply  that  there  were  two 
Stevensons,  after  the  manner  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde,  and  the 
question  demanding  answer  would  be  which  was  the  real 
one.  There  are  always  the  two  classes  of  men,  one  of 
whom  writes  the  noun  and  adjective  with  capitals,  the 
other  the  verb—men  exclusively  of  thought  or  feeling,  and 
men  exclusively  of  action.  To  which  of  these  classes  did  he 
belong  ?  But  a  broad  and  hard  division  like  this,  while  it 
bts  great  value  for  practical  purposes,  is  useless  in  any 
attempt  at  the  exact  analysis  of  a  man's  character.  Human 
nature  is  far  subtler  than  any  such  imaginary  pairs  or  groups 
existing  separately  within  one  single  personallQr.  However 
different  a  man's  characteristics  may  be  from  one  another, 

161 


11 


III 

till 

I 

4 


m 


'Ki 


liu 


^^ff: 


IlS*.     -   '.w.    -^- 


¥Hi    ^AITH    6F   It    L.    STBVBNSON 

they  all  intermiiigle  m  they  grow  together,  end  eeoh  tfbeti 
the  othere.  It  is  thie  hat  that  givee  ite  ftacination  to  the 
uialysif  of  ohemcter.  If  it  were  not  for  the  Uending  tod 
iatereotion  of  the  yeiiona  elemente,  ohuMter-itudy  wonM 
not  be  worth  beginning.  In  Stevenaon  the  two  sides— the 
seeing  and  the  trareUing— are  both  constantly  preeent,  and 
tiiey  blend  and  modify  eaoh  other  in  the  most  intiuuto 
ways.  The  spectaoolar  is  seldom  a  mere  background  for 
the  practical,  nor  is  the  practraal  often  qoite  forgotten  in  the 
spectacular.  So  that  the  main  eriterion  for  judging  which 
of  the  two  is  the  dominant  spirit  of  his  work  and  thought 
must  be  the  fall  of  emphasis,  now  on  the  one  and  again  on 
the  other  sida 

Sometimes  we  hare  a  mood  in  which  th$  pradieat  it 
tubordinattd  to  th»  iptetaeular.  In  this  mood,  travel  be- 
comes for  him  simply  a  means  of  gratifying  the  lust  of  the 
eyes,  concerned  not  with  reality  but  with  imagination,  in 
which  the  whole  actual  working  and  suffering  of  the  world 
is  but  so  much  stage  furniture.  For  himself,  he  is,  so  far 
as  practical  ends  are  concerned,  in '  a  pleasing  stupor,'  like 
those  drivers  he  has  described,  'who  pass  much  of  their 
time  in  a  great  vacancy  of  the  intellect,  and  threading  the 
sights  of  a  familiar  country.'  He  is  without  responsibilities, 
living  for  the  moment  only,  unfettered  even  by  those  unim- 
portant projects  (such  as  the  resolution  to  go  a  given 
distance  in  a  given  tin:e,  or  to  halt  at  a  certain  inn)  which 
become  duties  for  the  moment  and  are  apt  to  grow  into  pain- 
ful bonds  of  obligation  to  all  but  the  few  who  can  entirely 
detach  themselves.  In  this  mood  'you  forg  the  narrow 
lane  where  all  men  jostle  together  in  unchiviL  ius  conten- 
tii/U,  and  the  kennel,  deep  and  unclean,  that  gapes  on  either 
hand  for  the  defeated.  life  is  simple  enough,  it  seems,  and 
the  very  idea  of  sacrifice  becomes  like  a  mad  fancy  out  of  a 
last  night's  dream.  Your  ideal  is  not  perhaps  high,  but  it  ii 
163 


TBI    INSTINCT    OF    TBAVBL 

^ain  ud  ponible.  Ton  become  enamoured  of  »  life  of 
ehaage  end  movement  end  the  open  air,  where  the  mneclee 
■haU  be  mflffe  ezeteiaed  than  the  aflRsctiona.'  At  another 
time  travel  qniokens  imagination  to  nmianoe,  bnt  itill  with- 
oat  awakening  ai^  oonsdenoe  of  action.  '  dear  viiion  goea 
with  the  qoiok  foot,'  he  tells  ni,  and  this  dear  vision  of  the 
qniok-footed  not  onlj  shows  ns  things  in  sane  and  natural 
ipoportions;  it  adds  to  them  a  positive  charm  by  its  ragges- 
tiins  of  hidden  interesting  qualities,  and  it  quickens  the 
imagination  hj  the  very  exercise  of  motion.  In  all  such 
moods  we  see  him  subordinating  the  practical  to  the 
ipectacular.  Morals  retain  a  picturesque  intereet  only,  and 
•pirikual  things  are  valued  only  by  their  brilliance  or  dul- 
aess  as  parts  of  the  spectacle  of  the  world.  He  himself  is, 
like  Mb  own  Prince  Florisel,  'the  skilled  expert  in  lif e  .  .  . 
the  man  who  seemed,  like  a  god,  to  know  all  things  and  to 
have  sufTered  nothing.' 

This,  however,  is  but  an  exceptional  mood — a  relapse  from 
that  higher  one  which  evidently  represents  his  real  and 
deepest  sell  In  this  latter,  the  qieetaeular  is  nibordinattd  to 
tkepraetieal;  he  no  longer  travels  in  order  to  see,  but  sees 
in  order  to  travel  'It  is  to  this  wandering  and  uneasy 
spirit  of  anticipation  that  roads  minister.  Every  little  vista, 
every  little  glimpse  that  we  have  of  what  lies  before  us, 
gives  the  impatient  imagination  rein,  so  that  it  can  outstrip 
thu  body  and  already  plunge  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods, 
and  overlook  from  the  hill-top  the  plain  beyond  it,  and 
waader  in  the  windings  of  the  valley  that  are  still  far  in 
front  The  road  is  already  there— we  shall  not  be  long 
behind.'  Thus  may  vision  be  brought  into  the  direct 
service  of  travel,  even  on  the  material  plane.  When  we 
come  to  morals,  this  is  even  more  profoundly  true.  A 
Oerman  theologian  has  told  us,  in  one  of  those  pregnant 
sentences  whose  meaning  seems  to  grow  continually  fuller, 

163 


ilii 


4 

A 


14 


THl   VAITR   OV  B.   L.  SVITIITBOM 

that  th*  fin(  thing  rtqvidtt  for  gaining  Um  viotoiy  om  tbt 
world  is  thut  wt  ahdl  andontuid  Um  Uo  of  Um  world. 
So.  in  UMMriou  hnttam  cf  m»,  all  eltar  vidon  is  for  th« 
stkoofUMqviokfoot  This  is  trao  slong  Um  whole  line,  in 
Storenson's  jtidgmsnt»  and  in  Um  highest  nMttsr  of  faith  it 
is  sopromelj  ime.  ICorality  springs  diiveUy  from  faith. 
There  is  no  ose  of  a  belief  in  God.  or  almost  none,  except 
to  take  that  belief  for  a  foundation  on  which  to  boild  jour 
sense  of  what  is  right,  and  your  attempt  to  do  it  In  i 
word,  it  was  in  its  praoUoal  form,  as  faithfUness,  that  faith 
chiefly  interested  Bobert  Looii  SteTcnson. 

In  the  moet  literal  sense,  the  instinct  of  trarel  was  strong 
in  Sterenson.  There  is  no  need  for  oar  unUrging  on  thia 
obTions  fact,  bot  it  is  so  fiu>reaching  and  influential  that 
a  few  notee  can  hardly  be  omitted  To  begin  wiUi,  he 
had  the  geographical  sense  and  instinct,  which  manifested 
itself  in  many  different  waya  As  a  child  this  was  con- 
stanUy  wiUi  him,  adding  a  nsw  interest  to  all  his  employ- 
ments. The  faroarite  Saturday  walk  in  his  boyhood  wai 
to  the  docks  at  Leitb,  for  he  loved  a  ship  'as  a  man  lovet 
Burgundy  or  daybreak.'  In  earlier  years,  the  invalid 
child  had  lain  in  bed,  interpreting  the  hills  and  hollowa  of 
the  white  sheets  as  mountains  and  valleys  in  a  broad 
land ;  or  had  looked  upon  his  favourite  guden  as  a  con- 
tinent 'cut  into  provinces'  by  its  beech  hedge.  Am  quo 
Loeorum  shows  this  geographical  instinct  in  a  roligiotu 
light  in  childhood.  The  Scottish  metrical  version  of  the 
twenty-third  psalm  was  for  him  a  scripture  of  very  tender 
private  interpreUtiona  ' "  The  pastures  green  "  were  repre- 
sented by  a  certain  suburban  stubble-field,  where  I  bad 
once  walked  with  my  nurse,  under  an  autumnal  sunset,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Water  of  Leith.'  '"Death's  dark  vale" 
was  a  certain  archway  in  the  Warristou  Cemetery;  a  formid- 
able yet  beloved  spot' 
164 


THl    IirSTINOT    OF    TBAVBL 


His  lofTt  of  map*  wu  ftmng  from  fint  to  iMt  'Tho 
MiAor.'  ho  Mil  w,  '  mut  know  kit  ooostrytida,  whatber 
ml  or  UMgiuiy,  like  his  hand.'  Aooordinglj.  boforo  li« 
wrote  Trmmn  Itland,  be  auule  aa  •laborate  and  oolonrod 
nap  ot  an  island,  ami  as  be  paused  orer  tbat  mqp  tbe  obar- 
•elers  seemed  to  peep  oat  and  pass  to  and  fko  until  tbe  tale 
wss  made.  Among  tbe  fumitore  of  Th$  Idmd  Houm,  maps 
kave  an  nnnsaal  prominenoe,  and  cbarto  witb  'tbe  reefs, 
Mwndinga,  anohon,  sailing  marks  and  little  i^ot-pictnres,' 
tod  there  are  even  to  he  tables  for  modelling  imaginary  or 
sctaal  conntriee  in  patty  and  plaster.  Tbe  war  game  was 
jdsjed  at  DaTos,  in  an  attio  room  upon  whose  floor  '  a  map 
WIS  roughly  drawn  in  chalks  of  different  oolonrs,  witb  monn- 
Uios,  rivers,  towns,  bridges,  and  roads  of  two  classes.'  Not 
ku  than  in  maps  he  delighto  in  stringing  together  the  names 
of  fsr-off  places,  especially  when  tbe  names  are  sonorous,  or 
suggestive  of  curious  and  interesting  things  tbat  have  been 
bnwght  from  far.  In  WOl  o'  the  MM  the  miller  tries  to  tell 
Will  where  the  river  goes  to,  and  opens  his  heart  up  for  new 
iMigings  by  tbe  account  of  ite  way  by  cities  and  bridges, 
through  marshes  and  sands  to  the  sea  '  where  tbe  ships  are 
thst  bring  parrote  and  tobacco  from  the  Indies.'  'Dollars 
of  mine,'  says  Th*  Wrtektr,  'were  tacking  off  tbe  shores  of 
Mexico,  in  peril  of  the  deep  and  the  guardacos^fw ;  they 
rang  on  saloon  counters  in  the  city  of  Tombetone,  Arizona ; 
they  shone  in  faro-tenta  among  the  mountain  diggings.' 
The  'industrious  pirate '  of  tbe  Mortd  Emblems  daily  sweeps 
hia  telescope  round  the  horizon  '  from  Hatteras  or  Matepan.' 
The  ChiltPa  Garden  is  full  of  allusions  to  distant  lands. 
Jspsn  and  Babylon,  Tartary  and  California,  all  tbe  width  of 
the  world  is  there,  and  the  whole  book  is  a  sort  of  children's 
hymn  of  praise  for  tbe  wide  world.  Indeed  Oeoige  Mac- 
I)onsld's  lines  come  to  mind  often  as  we  read  Stevenson's 
books: 

166 


M 


f  f  ii 


:      'i 


m 


■J- 


THB    FAITH    OF   B.    L.    BTIYBMBON 


m 


•OtUwUUipMM 

Lteftoafc^ 

rwowlmnMl 

GfwlAlidHMM!  piMfMMtotaoaateiMwildl 

Booat  gbtn^forail  gfar>  1— tltoi  *■<  »i>  1 
f N*  tUafi  Md  piMtMW  in  fMU  NgiMi  fikir.' 

In  otiior  wftj*.  TW7  delioaUl/  Mid  oft«n  with  extraonli- 
narily  powerful  soggwtion  of  the  nntzplored,  he  impneaei  u 
with  hie  eenee  of  the  width  of  the  world.  The  present  spot 
whereon  he  iteads  is  elweji  eeen  in  relation  with  other 
pUcee  held  apart  from  it  hy  raat  breadths  of  sea  or  isod 
The  quainteet  of  all  instaneee  Uiat  oome  to  memory  is  that 
verse  from  2%<  C^tFs  Oardtm, : 

'  TIm  nia  is  niaiag  »U  wooad. 

It  niM  OB  Add  ud  tnt, 

It  mIm  ee  (h*  smbnllu  kan, 

▲ad  OB  ths  aUpt  al  mm.' 

Nothing  could  snrpsM  that  coupling  of  the  umbrellas  end 
the  riiifN,  in  iHiioh  we  see  the  comfort  and  the  adventare  of 
the  worM  united  under  the  dark  but  homely  roof  of  th« 
clouda  Again  he  can  detach  himself  from  the  spot,  tnd 
view  Scotland  from  the  outside,  seeing  it  for  the  time 
being  purely  with  the  eye  of  the  geographer—'  this  neck  of 
barren  hills  between  two  indonent  seaways.'  To  him  there 
is  no  foreign  land,  '  every  place  is  a  centre  to  the  earth, 
whence  highways  radiate  or  ships  set  sail'  The  Marquesan 
cemetery  impresses  him  with  the  thought  'how  far  these 
sleepers  had  all  travelled,  and  from  what  diverse  ports  they 
had  set  forUi,to  lie  here  in  Uie  end  together.'  On  Pagoptgo 
a  bell  rings  for  service,  and  he  reminds  us  how  various  its 
associations  are— to  the  natives  a  new,  strange,  outlandish 
thing ;  to  the  priests  calling  up  memories  of  French  and 
Flenush  cities,  to  himself '  talking  of  the  gr^  metropolia  of 
the  north,  of  a  village  on  a  stream,  of  vanished  faces  and 
silent  tongues.' 


TBI    INSTINCT    OF    TBATKL 

Bt  WM  from  ftnt  (o  kMt  a  gmA  tmT«ll«r.  Th«  nosMdie 
kbit  hi  dMbnd  to  b«  part  of  himMlf,  and  npidad  it  u 
the  nMttral  stalt  to  which  aankiiid  T«T«rti  on  th«  lUgl^att 
^vocation.  By  im  and  buid,  with  a  ouoe,  with  a  donkey, 
or  tiampiag  the  roada  with  a  hiapaack,  he  ia  ever  at  hia 
belt  when  ^rneTing.  The  paadon  for  exploring  takea  him 
maiterfallj  by  the  hand;  friendly  voicaa  call  him  farther 
tad  fnitber  into  the  unknown  r^iona.  The  aafe  comfort 
of  the  antravdled  he  moeka  with  delioiona  raillery : 

'  Tb«  ftoMB  pMki  kc  onco  •iploitd, 
Bat  BOW  bo's  d«Ml  sod  ^j  tho  bo»rd  ; 
How  bettor  far  at  home  ui  hare  itayod, 
Atttadod  by  tko  parlour  mAw' 

In  more  aerioua  mood  ia  Will  o'  ihe  Mill,  which  many 
critics  have  placed  among  hia  beat  achievements.  It  is  the 
fltody  of  a  man  who,  living  in  a  aecladed  spot,  far  from  the 
fimt  activities  of  the  woM  although  on  the  highway  that 
leads  to  them,  i§  often  tempted  to  the  adventure  of  travel, 
vet  always  hangs  back,  heaitatea,  and  stays  in  his  place.  The 
lucreasing  formality,  the  aenae  of  unnatural  and  even  in- 
human aloofness  in  the  man,  alienatea  the  reader  more  and 
more  as  the  tale  proceeds.  In  Stevenaon'a  handa  it  could 
not  have  been  therwiae.  The  travelling  life  ia  for  him  the 
only  normal  ,^^p&  His  delight  in  seafaring  waa  iidierited. 
His  grand&ther,  we  are  told,  ao  loved  hia  annual  cruise 
unong  the  Northern  lighta  that,  when  told  that  hia  death 
was  fast  approaching,  he  aeemed  to  feel  more  keenly  the  loss 
of  the  voyage  than  the  coming  of  the  laat  enemy.  The 
chief  delight  of  Stevenson's  own  early  days  was  that  aame 
cruise  in  the  Pharos.  Many  yean  later  we  still  find  him 
enjoying  above  all  thinga  the  excitement  of  a  landfaOl 
UDong  the  islands  of  the  South  Seaa;  and  declaring  timt 
even  literary  fame  ia  '  no  good  compared  to  a  yacht' 

Walking  is,  however,  the  ultimate  test  for  the  instinct  of 

157 


4 


I- 


THB    FAITH    OF   R.    L.    BTBVBNSON 

traTd.  Your  iteamer  or  FaUmui  our  have  many  adrentitiou 
•lemrats  of  interest— the  plain  road  is  the  joj  of  none  Imt 
the  heaven-bom  traveller.  Here  again  Stevenson  is  not 
wanting.  His  essay  on  JTaUring  Tourt  is  proof  of  this,  and 
there  is  the  inimitable  conArersation  with  the  Conunissary  at 
Ch&tillon:  C.  'Why,  then,  do  you  travel?'  B.L.S.  'I 
travel  for  pleasure.'  0.  (pointing  to  the  knapsack,  and 
with  sablime  incredulity)  '  With  that  ?  Look  here,  I  am  t 
person  of  intelligence!'  Tet,  in  spite  of  the  Commissarj, 
that  word  '  I  travel  for  pleasure '  counts  for  much.  It  ii 
significant  that  to  this  delight  in  walking  we  owe  the 
Esaay  on  Boads,  which  was  one  of  his  own  chief  favourites 
among  his  writings,  and  which  certainly  exhibits  some  of 
his  most  perfect  work.  In  it  he  has  caught  the  nomadic 
spirit  and  has  described  it,  giving  literary  expression  to 
the  meaning  of  the  road  in  a  manner  which  is  altogether 
beyond  praise.  The  following  extracts  are  but  a  fragment 
of  one  of  the  oompletest  pieces  of  picturesque  analysis  in 
the  language: 

'Conapieuoufl  among  these  tonrees  of  quiet  pleasure  (is)  the 
character  and  variety  of  the  road  itself,  along  which  he  take*  hit 
way.  Not  only  near  at  hand,  in  the  lithe  contortions  with 
which  it  adapts  itself  to  the  interchanges  of  level  and  slope,  bnt 
fu  away  also,  when  he  sees  a  few  hundred  feet  of  it  upheared 
•gainst  a  hill,  and  ahining  in  the  afternoon  sun,  he  will  find  it 
an  object  so  changeful  and  enlivening  that  he  can  alwaji 
pleasurably  busy  his  mind  about  it  He  may  leave  the  river- 
side,  or  fall  out  of  the  way  of  villages,  but  the  road  he  hu 
always  with  him ;  and  in  the  true  humour  of  observation,  will 
find  in  that  sufficient  company.  From  its  subtle  windings  and 
changes  of  level  there  arises  a  keen  and  continuous  intereit, 
that  keeps  the  attention  ever  alert  and  cheerful.  Every  senii- 
tive  adjiutment  to  the  contour  of  the  ground,  every  little  dip 
and  swerve,  seems  instinct  with  life  and  an  exquisite  sense  of 
balance  and  beauty.  The  road  rolls  upon  the  easy  slopes  of  the 
country,  like  a  long  ship  in  the  hollows  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  The 
168 


lisi: 


THE    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 

tnfeUer  is  dw  aware  of  a  lympathj  of  mood  between  hiouelf 
aad  the  road  he  trarels.  We  have  aU  Men  ways  that  hare 
wandered  into  heary  sand  near  the  sevooast,  and  trail  wearily 
orer  the  donee  like  a  trodden  serpent :  here  we  too  most  plod 
forward  at  a  duU,  laborious  pace ;  and  so  a  sympathy  is  pre- 
•enred  between  our  fhtme  of  mind  and  the  expression  of  the 
relaxed,  hesTy  cnrres  of  the  roadway.  .  .  .  Something  that 
we  haye  seen  firom  miles  back  upon  an  eminenoe,  is  so  long  hid 
from  us,  as  we  wander  through  folded  valleys  or  among  woods, 
thst  our  expeetation  of  seeing  it  again  is  quickened  into  a 
Tiolent  appetite,  and  as  we  draw  nearer  we  impatiently  quicken 
our  steps  and  turn  erery  comer  with  a  beating  heart  It  is 
through  these  prolongations  of  expectancy,  this  succession  of 
one  hope  to  another,  that  we  lire  out  long  seasons  of  pleasure 
in  a  few  hours'  walk.  It  is  in  following  these  capricious 
sinuosities  that  we  learn,  only  bit  by  bit,  and  through  one 
eoqaettish  reticence  after  another,  much  as  we  learn  the  heart 
of  s  friend,  the  whole  loveliness  of  the  country.' 

The  place  which  Travel  has  in  his  books  is  one  of  their 
most  constant  and  essential  features.  Wherever  he  is,  bis 
thoughts  are  in  some  other  place.  At  home,  he  wistfully 
dreams  of  the  Antipodes ;  in  the  Antipodes  his  heart  is  fuU 
of  the  exile's  longing  for  home.  All  his  romances  are 
femous  for  their  long  sweeps  of  journey  across  Scotland  or 
England,  or  over  seas.  The  titles  of  many  poems— ..%)i^  of 
Travel,  Tlu  S<mg  of  the  Road,  The  Vagabond,  et(i.-bear 
witness  to  this;  and  one  of  the  finest  of  his  unfinished 
8torie3  is  entitled  The  Cheat  North  Boad.  Roadside  inns  are 
often  introduced,  and  always  with  a  peculiar  gusto.  It  is 
true  that  the  excessive  indulgence  in  the  delights  of  travel 
lends  sometimes  to  his  tales  a  globe-trotting  and  restless 
Mr,  and  threatens  their  artistic  unity.  He  utilises  the 
distances  of  the  world  almost  unfairly.  When  the  ad- 
ventures sUcken  and  the  pace  threatens  to  slow  down  he 
whisks  you  away  to  New  York,  or  Fontainebleau,  or  Sydney. 
The  change  acts  like  a  new  stimulus  upon  the  book,  and  the 

1»» 


i  I 


THfl    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBVBNSON 


r 


tale  at  <»ioe  leaps.  In  Prince  Florizel  we  hare  travel  goni> 
crazy.  I%«  Wrtektir  has  soenes  in  San  Francisco,  Paris, 
Midway  Isbsd,  Honolalv,  Edinburgh,  Tai<o-hae,  and 
Fontainebleau ;  and  no  novel  has  nerves  that  can  stand 
that  amoant  of  change  in  five-and-twenty  chapters.  Tht 
Moiter  o/Balkmtnu,  with  all  its  power  and  its  magnificent 
insight,  and  its  sustained  and  even  growing  interest,  still  is 
broken-backed:  the  Scottish  and  American  parts,  ftom 
the  point  of  view  of  literary  art,  fall  asunder.  Yet  anj 
sneh  defects  are  amply  compensated  by  the  magnificent 
stride — the  sense  of  distance  and  movement — which  the 
constant  travelling  imparts  to  his  work.  The  Vagabond 
gives  the  note  of  this  in  swinging  lines : 

'  Qvn  to  iM  the  life  I  lore, 

Let  the  bre  go  bj  me; 
Oiro  the  jolly  beeren  aboTe, 

And  tlw  bjvay  nigh  me. .  .  . 
Let  tiie  Uow  fidl  eoon  or  late, 

Let  wbet  will  be  o'er  me ; 
Oire  the  fitoe  of  earth  around, 

▲nd  the  raad  before  me.' 

That  note  is  sustained,  and  to  read  his  books  is  to  feel 
an  exhilaration  like  that  of  a  swift  walk  through  breetj 
morning  air.  '  The  valleys  are  but  a  stride  to  you ;  yon 
cast  your  shoe  over  the  hill-tops;  your  ears  and  your  heart 
sing;  in  the  words  of  an  unverified  quotation  from  the 
Scotch  psalms,  you  feel  yourself  fit "  on  the  wings  of  all  the 
winds"  to  "come  flying  all  abroad."  Europe  and  you 
mind  are  too  narrow  for  that  flood  of  energy.' 


M* 


THB    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 


CHAPTER    X 

THE  nrsTiNCT  OF  TEAVEL  (continued) 

Just  u  tb«  physical  gift  of  vinon  passes  over  naturally 
and  uncoBsdoasly  into  mental  and  spiritaal  insight,  eo 
doM  the  physical  urgency  of  travel  pass  into  the  inner  life. 
There  it  appears  as  a  courageous  doetria*  whioh  he  took 
with  him  throughout,  and  whi^  largely  determined  his 
energetic  dealing  with  all  problem!,  the  doctriM  of  travel 
for  traveTi  take.    '  For  my  part,  I  travel  not  to  go  anywhere, 
bat  to  go.    I  travel  for  travel's  sake.    The  great  affair  is  to 
move.'    He  moves  accordingly — ^travels  in  the  matter,  as 
Uie  suggestive  old  ecclesiastical  phrase  has  it — under  the 
prompting  of '  that  divine  unrest,  that  old  stinging  trouble 
of  humanity  that  makes  all  high  achievements   and   all 
miserable  failure.'    One  of  his  subtlest  essays  in  analysis  is 
Will  o'  the  Mill,  which,  as  we  have  seen,  describes  with 
marvellous  insight  the  inner  life  of  one  who  hesitates  ever 
npon  the  brink  of  action,  and  who  never  steps  forward  either 
into  travel  or  love.     For  his  own  part,  he  is  otherwise 
minded.    Love  he  regards  as  a  voyage  to  the  unknown  and 
lovely  country  of  a  woman's  soul,  and  afterwards  a  journey 
there  (for  there  is  the  keeping  in  love  as  well  as  the  falling 
in  love)  through  the  yeaw  towards  the  still  unattained  ideal 
Similarly  in  all  the  other  business  of  life,  travel  is  the  law : 
'The  artist  who  says  It  will  do  ia  on  the  downward  path.' 
The  true  El  Dorado  is  not  ahead,  but  on  the  road— 'to  have 
many  aspirations  is  to  be  spiritually  ricL'    In  fine,  'to 

L  161 


m  i 


\m  I 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

trarel  hopefuUj  is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive,  and  the 
tme  saooeM  is  to  labour.' 

In  this  doctrine  there  is  involved  a  curious  combination 
of  the  instinctive  fascination  by  the  future,  and  the  rational 
distrust  of  it.    He  hears  continually  the  call  of  the  time  to 
come,  the  Song  of  the  Morrow;  yet  the  mysterious  fable  to 
which  he  has  given  that  title  is  heavy  with  sinister  antici- 
pation.   Compare  it  with  Montaigne's  lightsome  essay  on 
To-tnorrow'a  a  New  Day—m  essay  with  which  Stevenson 
was  doubtless  familiar.—and  you  feel  an  ominous  sense  of 
the  inevitable  tragedy  of  life.    In  phiin  words,  he  asks,  in 
the  person  of  Florizel,  'Is  there  anything  in  life  so  dis- 
enchanting  as  attainment?'  and  declares  success  to  be 
impossible  for  man  upon  this  earth ;  we  are  not  intended  to 
succeed.    Nothing  is  commoner  in  his  letters  than  those 
touches  for  which  every  earnest  worker  loves  him,  in  which 
he  describes  himself  as  pursuing  an  ideal  which  he  can 
never  quite  reach ;  and  with  him  the  result  is  not  the 
usual  wailing  confession  of  failure,  but  the  acceptance  of 
failure  only  to  glorify  it  with  a  new  and  altogether  health- 
ful meaning.    'Our  business  in  this  world,'  he  tells  us, 'is 
not  to  succeed,  but  to  continue  to  fail,  in  good  spirits.' 
When  the  end  shall  come  he  is  content  with  this  for  hij 
epitaph  'Herj  lies  one  who  meant  well,  tried  a  little,  failed 
much,'  and  '  there  goes  another  Faithful  FaUure  ! ' 

It  is  bold  teaching,  and  in  truth  the  doctrine  is  only « 

safe  one  for  the  strenuous.    There  are  plenty  of  us  who 

would  wilUngly  beUeve  it,  and   in  the  strength  of  that 

belief  accept  the  situation  and  consent  to  fail.    For  all  such, 

a  hopeless  lapse  to  pessimism  ia  the  inevitable  result,  and 

they  will  find  words  of  his  to  confirm  it : 

'  On  ereiy  hud  the  roads  begin, 
An<l  people  walk  with  leal  therein  ; 
But  wherasoe'er  the  highwayu  tend, 
Be  euro  there  'a  nothing  at  the  end  ' 
Itt 


THE    INSTINCT    OP    TRAVEL 

Yet  those  who  find  pessimism  in  A  Cfhrittmas  Sermon,  the 
esaay  which  most  carefully  expounds  the  doctrine  of 
faUure,  have  read  it  to  little  purpose.  For  the  strenuous 
there  is  no  defeat,  and  Stevenson,  with  all  his  theory  of 
failure,  never  consents  to /ail.  He  knows,  like  St  Paul,  that  at 
no  future  time  shall  he  be  able  to  boast  that  he  has  already 
attained,  or  is  already  perfect.  Yet  he  turns  back  with 
undeadened  enthusiasm  to  the  gallant  taak  of  life  in  the 
present  hour,  and  accepts  the  'glory  of  going  on,'  for  his 
never-failing  and  sufficient  reward.  'God  forbid  it  should 
be  man  that  wearies  in  well-doing,  that  despairs  of  un- 
rewarded effort,  or  utters  the  language  of  complaint  Let 
it  be  enough  for  faith,  that  the  whole  cteatiM  groans  in 
mortal  frailty,  strives  with  unconquerable  coastancy :  surely 
not  all  in  vain.' 

This  view  of  life  throws  light  upoii  dtevenaen's  sayings 
about  immortality.  His  doctrine  of  travel  for  travel's  sake, 
vith  its  accompanying  disparagement  of  sucoaH.goe8  with 
an  extreme  objection  to  the  hope  of  reward  as  a  Incentive 
to  labour.  •  The  soul  of  piety  was  killed  k^  ^o  by  that 
idea  of  reward'  he  affirms.  'Nor  is  happsMn,  whether 
eternal  or  temporal,  the  reward  that  mankind  seeks. 
Happinesses  are  but  his  wayside  campings;  his  soul  is  in 
the  journey.'  He  hates  working  for  money,  he  holds  all 
racmg'as  a  creature  of  the  devil,'  and  discounts  even  the 
desire  for  fame  as  the  ruling  motive  of  heroic  deeds.  In- 
deed even  'To  ask  to  see  some  fruit  of  our  endeavour  is 
but  a  transcendental  way  of  serving  for  reward.' 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  show  that  there  is  another 
Bide  to  this  question.  life  is  a  very  compUcated  engage- 
ment,  and  among  the  many  motives  to  noble  deeds,  that  of 
reward  plays  no  mean  part  Since  good  conduct,  and  still 
more  good  character,  is  so  very  difficult  to  achieve,  we 
annot  afford  to  discard  any  of  its  incentives;  and  it  were 


1: 


THS.    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    8TBTBN80N 

wiaer  to  take  onr  atiuid  on  the  simple  hunum  groand  of 
Shakspeare's  OymMine : 

'Fear  no  mora  tho  hast  of  tho  ma, 
Nor  tho  Anions  winter*!  ragM  ; 
Tkoa  thy  woridly  taik  haat  done, 
Homo  Mt  gOBO,  Md  tafoB  thy  wigaa.' 

Tet  those  who  are  least  inclined  to  agree  with  SteTonaon 
in  his  view  of  reward  may  still  appreciate  and  admire  the 
spirit  of  which  it  is  the  outcome.  It  can  do  none  of  ui 
any  harm  to  have  our  attention  recalled  at  times  from  the 
future  to  the  present,  and  to  be  told  emphatically  that 
energetic  living  is  good  enough  in  itself  without  a  bribe. 
As  for  immortality,  while  there  are  passages  in  which  hii 
objection  to  serving  for  hire  leads  him  to  discount  it,  then 
are  many  other  passages  in  which  it  is  presupposed  and 
accepted  as  that  to  which  life  leads  on  its  travellers.  Hii 
general  attitude  to  the  whole  question  is  summed  up  in 
one  memorable  sentence  of  his  MtmorUt  and  Portraits,  'To 
believe  in  immortality  is  one  thing,  but  it  is  first  needfnl 
to  believe  in  life.' 

The  first  result  of  the  Instinct  of  Travel  with  Stevenson 
is  seen  in  that  demand  for  imnudiaetf  which  was  always  w 
imperative  with  him.  In  his  novels  the  lapse  of  time  ii 
hardly  noticed.  Few  of  his  characters  change  very  materiallj, 
nor  does  age,  in  any  one  instance,  really  overtake  the  people 
of  his  creation.  The  times  given  for  the  action  in  his  four 
plays  are  48  hours;  10  hours;  part  of  a  day  and  night; 
12  to  14  hours.  This  swiftness  of  thought  and  action  ii 
unconsciously  expressed  in  his  insistence  on  compression 
as  the  essential  thing  in  writing,  'the  note  of  a  reallj 
sovereign  style.'  He  is  always  at  his  best  when  he  feeb 
the  jog  of  travel,  not  pausing  long  in  passages  of  descriptiTe 
information,  but  giving  scenery  and  impressions  in  flashes, 
as  they  appear  to  one  moving  swiftly.  WiU  o'  the  MUl  his 
164 


THB    INSTINCT    OF    TRATSL 

bem  Mtanl  timM  AUndad  to^  It  ia  a  gnat  piece  of  work, 
neb  M  is  poedble  only  to  high  geniu.  It  i«  hii  deUbmte 
attonpt  to  Ure  from  within  a  character  in  which  Kfe  mna 
dow.  Iti  want  of  apontaneity  ahowa  how  impoaaible  the 
talk  waa  for  him. 

Immediacy  ia  the  word  which  perhapa  better  than  any 
other  aommariaea  the  practical  aide  of  Stevenaon'a  character. 
The  eagemeaa  and  forcefnlneaa  of  hia  attack  vpon  what- 
erer  thing  it  ia  that  confronta  him,  ia  of  the  very  eaaence 
of  the  man.     He  refaaed  to  deaden  hia  Titality  by  a 
eantiona  calculation  of  conaequeucea,  remote  or  near.    It 
waa  the  moment  that  called  him  to  ita  dntj  or  ita  pleaanre, 
and  he  roae  at  once  to  ita  aummona.     Of  himaelf.  aa  of 
St  Ivea,  it  eoold  be  aaid  that  he  had  never  ohoaen  the 
cheap  and  eaay— only  that  he  had  ataked  hia  Ufe  upon 
the  most  immediate.    Nothing  strikes  fire  from  the  flint 
more  frequenUy  in    his  books  than  this.     When  duty 
presenU  an  immediate  challenge,  the  situation  flashes  out 
into  brilliance,  and  the  very  words  seem  to  blaze.     The 
captain  in  the  Fable  des^ses  the  man  who  would  omit 
to  wind  up  his  watch  upon  a  sinking  ship.    •  It  is  better,' 
we  are  told  in  Aea  Triplex,  'to  lose  health  like  a  spendthrift 
than  to  waste  it  Uke  a  miser.    It  is  better  to  live  and 
be  done  with  it  than  to  die  daily  in  the  sick-room.    By 
tU  means  begin  your  folio;  even  if  the  doctor  does  not 
give  you  a  year,  even  if  he  hesitates  about  a  month,  make 
one  brave  push  and  see  what  can  be  accomplished  in  a 
week.    It  is  not  only  in  finished  undertakings  that  we  / 
ought  to  honour  useful  labour.    A  spirit  goes  out  of  the  ^ 
man  who  means  execution  which  ouUives  the  most  un- 
timely ending.    All  who  have  meant  good  work  with  their 
whole  hearts,  have  done  good  work,  although  they  may  die 
before  they  have  the  time  to  sign  it.    Every  heart  that  has 
w»t  strong  and    cheerfully  has  left  a  hopeful   impulse 

166 


If 


:-n 


!? 


1 1ll 


THB    FAITH    OV    B.    L.    BTlTlirBON 

bdiind  it  in  th*  world,  and  bettond  the  tiadition  of  mu. 
kind.'  Nothii^  tint  Sterenton  em  wrote  cune  man 
direct  from  hia  heart  than  that,  nnleaa  perhape  it  waa  thii, 
oimoeming  Walt  Whitman:  'He  tieata  eril  and  lonow 
in  a  spirit  almost  a«  of  weloome;  aa  an  old  sea-dog 
mi^t  hare  welccmied  the  sight  of  the  enemy's  topiaiU 
off  the  Spanish  Main.  There,  at  least,  he  seems  to  mj, 
is  something  obvious  to  be  done.' 

It  might  be  imagined  that  in  his  nsage  the  principle  o( 
immediacy  has  little  to  do  with  morality  or  religion, 
and  that  what  it  has  to  do  with  them  is  mostly  wrong. 
He  has  a  word  of  praise  for  impudent  daring  and  insttnt 
retaliation ;  be  almost  forces  sympathy  for  Deacon  Brodic, 
who  'felt  it  great  to  be  a  bolder,  craftier  rogue  than  the 
drowsy  citizen ' ;  he  has  something  approaching  admiration 
for  the  tattooed  white  man  of  Uap-pu,  who  had  so  un- 
hesitatingly obeyed  his  love  for  an  island  princess  as  to 
submit  to  the  torture  of  tattooing  that  he  might  have  hn 
for  his  wife.  Mr.  Loudon  Dodd  commits  himself  to  enter- 
prises which  on  the  large  scale  are  mischievous,  quieting 
his  conscience  with  the  thought  that  he  is  doing  it  for 
his  poor  friend  Jim  Plnkerton;  'this  is  a  poor,  private 
morality,  if  you  like,'  he  truly  confesses,  'but  it  is  mine, 
and  the  best  I  have.'  Yet  in  all  such  instances  there  is  an 
underlying  quality  which  is  good,  and  from  which  much 
goodness  springs.  It  is  the  quality  which  Browning  im- 
mortalises in  The  Statue  and  the  Bust,  and  without  which  no 
man  may  enter  the  heaven  of '  the  soldier  saints  who,  row 
on  row,  burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss.'  The 
quality  of  immediacy  has  thus  a  certain  claim  to  virtue  in  its 
own  right,  dangerous  and  uncertain  though  its  action  maj 
often  be.  It  at  least  saves  a  man  from  the  tamer  immor- 
ality of  accepting  the  universe  without  thinking  about  right 
or  wrong  at  alL  It  saves  a  man  from  the  opposite 
166 


..!U, 


'J, 


THI    INtTINOT    OF    TRAVEL 

UmptoOon.  jiMing  (o  whioh  '  the  inganioiu  hninan  mind, 
foee  to  fM*  with  Mnuethiiig  it  downright  onght  to  do,  don 
nmdking  tU$:    It  n«T«r,  n%n  at  ita  wont,  approMshM  the 
kvel  of  thoM  who  giro  themaelTw  aolmnnlj  to  dissipation 
•with  a  penrena  MriootneM,  a  systamatio  rationalism  of 
wickedness  that  would  have  snrprised  the  simplar  sinners 
of  old.'    On  the  other  hand,  enlisted  on  the  better  side,  it 
gnidss  men  to  the  right  coarse  in  many  a  sitnatiou.  •  He  who 
temporises  with  his  conscience  is  already  lost,'  he  warns  as ; 
sod  a  golden  rale  of  his  was,  •  When  yoa  are  ashamed  to  ^ 
•peak,  speak  np  at  once.'    We  see  in  Carthew,  how  the  ^ 
Iffoken  gentleman  finds  himself  again  when  in  the  sqnad  of 
n»T?ies  he  is  face  to  face  with  work  that  mast  be  done 
instant!/,  with  no  time  left  for  asking  whether  it  were 
necesMry.    In  Christian  ethics  there  is  ever  a  double  duty. 
Chriitianity  trains  men's  eyes  upon  the  far-oif  ideal,  and 
yet  commands  them  to  lay  hold  upon  the  nearest  duty. 
Either,  if  abne,  gives  but  faulty  and  imperfbet  result 
Of  Stevenson  it  certainly  cannot  be  said  that  he  neglected 
the  long   reaulta  of  conduct;   but  in   a  time   of  many 
theories  and  maah  speeulatiog  by  people  who  do  not  commit 
themselves  to  action,  he  has  done  a  still  higher  service  by 
calling  attention  in  so  clear  a  voice  to  what  another  has 
called  '  the  commanding  immediacy  of  life.' 

It  was  largely  this  delight  in  immediacy  which  developed 
in  Stevenson  hifi  interest  in  war,  and  that  soldier  spirit 
which  is  so  remarkable  in  him.  True,  he  does  not  seem,  at 
first  sight,  a  likely  type  of  military  man.  That  weak  body, 
which  kept  so  many  of  bis  days  in  silence  and  inacUon. 
might  have  seoned  to  doee  for  him  all  chances  of  active 
service,  and  to  turn  him  to  quieter  thoughts.  Yet  in  this 
region  he  claimed  bis  inheritance  all  the  more  imperiously 
iHJcause  it  seemed  beyond  his  reach.  The  lifelong  fight 
with  illn«88  and  wwkness  oi  body  became  in  his  hands  an 

167 


if 


J,  * 


\i 


THS   IPAITH   OF    B.    L.  BTBYINBON 

Mosflad  Munpdgn  ud  warfare.     In  wtrij  ehlldhood  we 
And  him  giidad  with  •  little  ew<»d.    When  iii«d«  to  weer 
a  ehftwl  abort  tho  ewoffd,  he  wae  dJitweeiJ  bj  the  no* 
•oldierly  nnifonn,  until  a  new  interpretation  oonfbrted 
him— 'Do  yon  think  it  will  look  like  a  night-Diaiehf 
That  wae  exactly  Uie  problem  of  life  for  him— to  traulate 
the  earef^l  and  darkened  jonmej  of  the  InTalid  into  a 
night>mareh,  the  shawl  IdU)  a  martial  eloak.   The  metaphor 
remained.    When  he  ia  nearing  forty  he  writee  that  the 
ilUhealth  with  whioh  he  baa  to  itmggle  ia '  an  enemy  who 
was  exciting  at  fint,  but  has  now,  by  the  iteration  of  his 
strokes,  become  merely  annoying  and  inexpressibly  irk- 
some.'   Still  nearer  the  end  he  writes  to  Meredith:  'For 
fonrteen  years  I  hare  aot  had  a  day's  real  health.  ...  I 
have  written  in  bed,  and  written  oat  of  it,  written  in 
hemorrhages,  written  in  sickness,  written  torn  by  coughing, 
written  when  my  head  swam  for  weakness ;  and  for  so  long, 
it  seems  to  me,  I  have  won  my  wager  and  recovered  my 
glove.  .  .  .  The  battle  goes  on— ill  or  well,  is  a  trifle ;  so  si 
it  goes.    I  was  made  for  a  contest,  and  the  Powers  have  so 
willed  that  my  battlefield  should  be  this  dingy,  ingloriou 
one  of  the  bed  and  the  physic  bottle.' 

His  spirit  of  soldierhood  was,  however,  by  no  meani 
confined  to  any  one  campaign.  His  whole  heart  was  in 
soldiering,  and  there  are  few  of  his  romances  in  which  he 
does  not  ^ht  battles  vicariously  in  the  persons  of  hia 
heroes.  Those  are  always  brilliant  passages  in  which 
fighting  is  described.  Sometimes,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
they  are  gruesome  and  sanguinary,  but  always  they  are  fall 
of  gusto,  and  the  sheer  delight  in  fighting  for  fighting's 
sake.  His  theory  of  the  brave  deeds  of  the  English 
admirals  is  that  they  fought  their  actions  because  they 
had  an  inclination  that  way,  and  it  \e  a  theory  which  he 
counts  true  and  wholesome. 
168 


TBB    IHBTINOT   OW   TBAVBL 

Tbu  it  OMM  to  p«M  that  tb*  whol*  of  Ut*  to  bin  won  « 
mOHuy  Mpect.  and  in  that  aapeet  we  bays  boCb  brilliaoea 
•ad  iiBBMdUaej  at  tbtir  kcaiaat  Ufa,  in  bia  viaw  of  it, 
WM  'an  aflUr  of  oaTalrj— 'a  tbiog  to  ba  daabiagly  vaad 
and  ebavfUly  kanidad.'  He  Uved.  aad  eiied  akmd  to  va 
all  to  live,  to  tbe  muaio  of  biiglaa.  aad  on  tbe  point  of 
iailaBt  engagement  It  waa  in  tbia  aenae  tbat  be  welcomed 
'  the  harab  roice  of  dntj,'  and  watebed  for '  tbe  bright  face 
of  danger.'  In  bia  one  touch  of  actual  warfare,  when  in 
Samoa  be  rode  for  tbe  flrat  time  to  a  field  where  troope 
were  gathered  for  battle,  bia  apirita  roae  to  a  wild  exbilara- 

tion—' War  ia  a  bnge  «ii<ra<iMiiMii< ;  there  ia  no  other  tempta- 
tion to  be  compared  to  it,  not  one.  .  .  .  We  came  home  like 
aehoolbojra,  witb  aoob  a  lightnem  of  apirita.  and  I  am  aure 
mob  a  biigbtneaa  of  ej^  aa  you  ooald  have  lit  a  candle  at' 

Aa  in  the  treatment  of  the  general  anbjeot  of  immediacy, 
10  in  tbia  particular  pbaae  of  it,  there  may  or  there  may 
not  be  any  definite  ethical  quality.  The  diareputaUe 
Deacon  Brodie  aaka,  'Shall  I  baye  it  out  and  be  done  witb 
it? ...  to  carry  baation  after  baation  at  the  cbaige— there 
were  the  true  aafety  after  all  I '  There  ia  nothing  veiy  lofty 
in  that  But  tbe  immediacy  of  war  baa  given  him  aome 
paaiagea  than  which  nothing  that  be  baa  done  ia  more 
characteriatic  of  bia  faith.  The  firat  ia  from  Our  Laity 
o/theSnom: 

'  Forth  from  th«  euatamtt,  oa  the  pUin 
Wh«re  hononr  hu  th«  world  to  gaiii, 
Poor  forth,  and  hnrely  do  yoor  part, 
Oh  knighta  of  tb«  nmihieldcd  hoort  I 
Forth  and  forarer  forward !— out 
ttom  prudent  tarret  and  redoubt, 
And  in  the  mellay  charge  amain, 
To  faU  bat  yet  to  riae  again  1 
O^iTO  ?  ah,  etill,  to  hononr  bright, 
A  oaptiTe  aoldier  of  the  right  I 
Or  free  and  fighting,  good  with  illt 
Unoonqnering  bat  nnoonqnered  etill  I ' 

169 


'I, 


MKiocorr  MMUinoN  tbt  cnait 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  3) 


1.0 


1.1 


lit 
111 


IM 


Hmm 
12.0 


1.8 


V&liitii 


A 


/APPLIED  IN/MGE    Inc 

l«S3  Edtt  Main  SlrMl 

Rochntar,  Nn  York        14609      USA 

(716)  462- 0300 -PlKio. 

(716)  286  -  S«t9  -  rw 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSON 

The  second,  given  only  in  the  Lift,  is  there  entitled  i^nwy 
to  No.  XXV,  of  Songs  of  Travel  ('God,  if  this  were 
enough'): 

*  Wanitd  VtHmUmn 
To  do  thtir  htdfor  twooeonytanl 
A  ready  loldier,  hen  I  ■Uod, 
Primed  for  thj  oomnuuid, 
With  bnmiihed  sword. 
irthisbeMth,OLord 
Help  Thou  mine  unbelief 
And  b«  my  battio  bn'ef.' 

Precious  as  the  doctrine  of  immediacy  is,  it  is  yet  the 
easier  part  of  life  to  which  it  guides  us.  At  the  moment^ 
there  is  always  'something  obvious  to  be  done.'  To  do 
that  gallantly,  so  as  to  bring  pictnresqueness  to  the  aid  of 
action,  is  a  great  thing.  But  there  is  a  greater  thing  still 
awaiting  us  in  the  longer  and  quieter  tasks  which  demand 
patience  as  well  as  attack.  It  is  not  enough  to  start  the 
journey  with  brilliant  occasional  rushes.  We  have  yet  to 
learn  to  live  and  labour  strenuously  and  with  hope.  Thus 
the  Instinct  of  Travel  leads  on  to  a  further  stretch  of 
practical  doctrine. 

The  great  word  for  this  as  for  the  former  travel-doctrine 
is  Vitality.  '  Everything 's  alive.'  shouts  Archie  in  Weir  of 
ffermiaton, '  th&ak  God,  everything's  alive';  and  Stevenson 
is  with  him  there.  In  Michael  Angelo's  art,  it  is  'the 
latent  life '  that  he  admires, '  the  coiled  spring  in  the  sleep- 
ing dog,'  the  marble  that  'seems  to  wrinkle  with  a  wild 
energy.'  He  prefers  life  to  art,  or  even  to  ease  and  pleasure, 
and  delights  in  poignant  experience  of  any  kind.  He 
prefers,  as  one  of  the  letters  has  it,  peril  to  annoyance,  and 
fear  to  ill-humour.  Even  in  revolt,  so  long  as  a  man  is  a 
'vital  sceptic'  it  is  well;  and  indeed  it  was  to  this  that  he 
owed  his  own  deliverance.  Of  all  maladies  he  counts  that 
>.of  not  toanting  the  worst;  of  all  men  he  is  the  most  pitiable 
170 


THB    INSTINCT    OP    TRAVEL 

who  is  •  bom  diaenchanted,'  and  for  whom  there  seems  not 
to  be '  even  one  thing  needful.'  In  Aa  Triplex  and  Crabbed , 
Age  and  Youth  he  protests  against  paralysing  life  and  its*" 
present  desires  by  brooding  on  the  thought  of  death,  or 
checking  the  energies  of  youth  by  too  minute  a  preparation 
for  the  days  of  age.  Let  a  man  take  the  risk  of  living 
while  he  is  at  it;  let  him  wade  deep  in  the  tide  of  life. 
Sooner  or  later  age  and  death  will  have  their  way  with 
him,  meanwhile  there  is  the  glowing  hour.  'By  managing 
its  own  work,  and  following  its  own  happy  inspiration, 
youth  is  doing  the  best  it  can  to  endow  the  leisure  of  age. 
A  full,  busy  youth  is  your  only  prelude  to  a  self^ntained 
and  independent  age;  and  the  muff  inevitably  develops 
into  the  bore.'  '  Every  bit  of  brisk  Uving,  and  above  all  if 
it  be  healthful,  is  just  so  much  gained  upon  the  wholesale 
filcher,  death.'  In  this  fashion  does  the  image  of  life  as  a 
road  on  whieh  it  is  man's  business  to  travel  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  lead  to  the  dominating  principle  '  Live  while 
you  live.'  It  is,  as  he  understands  it,  a  very  different 
maxim  from  that  with  which  the  fool  encourages  his  heart 
to  its  destruction— 'Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die.'    For  Stevenson  life  is  far  more  than  meat  and  drink  : 

'Since  I  sm  sworn  to  live  my  life 
And  not  to  keep  an  eMj  heart, 
Some  men  may  sit  and  drink  apart, 
I  bear  a  Imnner  in  the  strife.' 

'Vital,  that's  what  I  am  at,  first:  wholly  vital,  with  a 
buoyancy  of  life.' 

The  principle  of  'living  while  we  live '  may  be  apjUied  in 
either  of  two  apparently  opposite  senses.  It  may  be  a  plea 
for  idleness  or  a  plea  for  work.  With  Stevenson  it  was 
both.  Just  as  it  is  only  those  who  have  travelled  far  that 
can  appreciate  the  wayside  rest  upon  a  mossy  bank,  or  the 
evening  by  the  fireside  of  the  inn,  so  he  knew  the  delight  of 

171 


'"Sj 


H 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYENSON 


^ 

.4 


fiiii 


idleness  as  none  know  it  who  are  not  also  strenuous.  Tet  it 
was  not  only  for  the  pleasure  of  it,  but  as  a  real  department 
of  vitality,  that  he  advocated  idling.  People  who  cannot  idle 
miss  something  of  the  meaning  of  life.  'We  are  in  such 
haste  to  be  doing,  to  be  writing,  to  be  gathering  gear,  to 
make  our  voice  audible  a  moment  in  the  derisive  silence  of 
eternity,  that  we  forget  that  one  thing,  of  which  these  are 
but  the  parts — namely,  to  live.'  To  such  persons  'some- 
thing to  do '  has  become  the  enemy  of  joy,  business  habits 
a  menace  to  the  soul,  and  hurry  but  a  token  of  their  lack 
of  faith.  '  Extreme  butyness,  whether  at  school  or  college, 
kirk  or  market,  is  a  symptom  of  deficient  vitality ;  and  a 
faculty  for  idleness  implies  a  catholic  appetite  and  a  strong 
sense  of  personal  identity.'  To  imagine  that  the  world 
demands  unremitting  labour,  and  that  duty  allows  of  no 
relaxations,  is  to  take  ourselves  far  too  seriously.  'Atlaa 
was  just  a  gentleman  with  a  prctracted  nightmare!  And 
yet  you  see  me  -chants  who  go  and  la^  our  themselves  into  t 
great  fortune  and  thence  into  the  bankruptcy  court;  . . . 
and  fine  young  men  who  work  themselves  into  a  decline, 
and  are  driven  off  in  a  hearse  with  white  plumes  upon  it.' 

The  Apology  for  Idlers,  from  which  some  of  the  passages 
just  quoted  have  been  taken,  goes  further,  and  discourses 
with  great  insight  and  wisdom  upon  the  positive  virtues  of 
idleness.  The  idler  is  a  healthy-minded  person.  '  He  has 
had  time  to  take  care  of  his  health  and  his  spirits;  he 
has  been  a  great  deal  in  the  open  air,  which  is  the  most 
salutary  of  all  things  for  both  body  and  mind.'  He  has 
acquired  a  peculiar  kind  of  wisdom,  not  elsewhere  to  be 
found.  '  While  others  behold  the  East  and  West,  the  Devil 
and  the  Sunrise,  he  will  be  contentedly  aware  of  a  sort  of 
morning  hour  upon  all  sublunary  things,  with  an  army  of 
shadows  running  speedily  and  in  many  different  directions 
into  the  great  daylight  of  eternity.  The  shadows  and  the 
172 


THE    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 

goiendons,  the  shrill  doctors  and  the  plangent  wars,  go 
by  into  ultimate  silence  and  emptiness;  but  underneath  all 
this  a  man  may  see  out  of  the  Belvedere  windows  much 
green  and  peacefal  landscape;  many  firelit  parlours;  good 
people  laughing,  drinking,  and  making  love  as  they  did 
before  the  Flood  or  the  French  Kevolution;  and  the  old 
shepherd  telling  his  tale  under  the  hawthorn.' 

Yet  the  other  way  of  living  while  you  live  was  essenti- 
ally his  way.     This,  we  take  it,  is  what  he  means  by 
saying  that  he  was  never  'very  fond  of  (what  is  technically 
caUed)  God's  green  earth.'     If  the  choice  were  between 
work  and  idleness  as  that  which  gives  its  essential  meaning 
io  life,  he  would  unquestionably  have  chosen  work.    No 
prayer  seems  to  "ome  more  directly  from  his  heart  than 
this:  'Give  us  to  go  blithely  on  our  business.    Help  us  to 
play  the  man;   help  us  to  perform  the  petty  round  of 
irritating  concerns  und  autias  with  laughter  and  kind  faces ; 
let  cheerfulness  abound  with  industry.'    Any  kind  of  labour 
was  precious  in  his  sight.    In  Vailima  we  see  him  toiling 
with  equal  eagerness  in  a  dozen  different  directions,  from 
politics  to  pig-rearing,  and  from  bush-clearing  to  writing 
poetry.    '  The  tenacity  of  many  ordinary  people  in  ordinary 
pursuits  is  a  sort  of  standing  challenge  to  everybody  else. 
If  one  man  can  grow  absorbed  in  delving  his  garden,  others 
may  grow  absorbed  and  happy  over  something  else.    Not  to 
be  upsides  in  this  with  any  groom  or  gardener  is  to  1 3  very 
meanly  organised.    A  man  should  be  ashamed  to  take  his 
food  if  he  has  n*      ^chemy  enough  in  his  stomach  to  turn 
some  of  it  into  incbuse  and  enjoyable  occupation.'    In  this 
spirit  it  is  man's  first  duty  to  fight  on  until  he  dies;  and 
the  gallant  fighter  will  die  young,  however  old  he  be  when 
death  shall  overtake  him.    'Death  has  not  been  suffered 
to  take  so  much  as  an  Ulusion  from  his  heart.    In  the 
bot-fit  of  life,  a-tiptoe  on  the  highest  point  of  being,  he 

173 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

passes  at  a  bound  on  to  the  other  side.  1  ue  noise  of  the 
mallet  and  chisel  is  scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets  are 
hardly  done  blowing,  when,  trailing  with  him  clouds  of 
glory,  this  happy-starred,  full-blooded  spirit  shoots  into  the 
spiritual  land.' 

A  man's  view  of  labour  must  be  gathered  chiefly  from 
the  manner  in  which  he  faces  the  chosen  work  of  his  life. 
In  Stevenson's  case  we  have  copious  materials  for  studying 
his  methods  of  literary  work  and  his  feeli  <gs  regarding  it 
On  this  he  is  more  communicative  than  most  writers;  and 
his  letters,  especially  the  Vailima  Letters,  are  full  of  refer- 
ences to  the  subject.  He  makes  no  pretence  of  underrating 
his  diligence.  Indeed,  to  vindicate  it,  he  will  even  under- 
rate his  natural  gifts.  'I  frankly  believe  (thanks  to  my 
dire  industry)  I  have  done  more  with  snudler  gifts  than 
almost  any  man  of  letters  in  the  world.'  'The  work  I 
have  been  doing  the  last  twelve  months  (1892),  in  one 
continuous  spate,  mostly  with  annoying  interruptions  and 
without  any  collapse  to  mention,  would  be  incredible  in 
Norway.' 

First,  there  was  the  apprenticeship.  Literature  has  to  be 
a  trade  before  it  can  become  an  art,  the  student  working 
indefatigably  at  the  mechanical  technique  of  style  before 
he  thinks  of  matter  and  creation.  Stevecson,  full  from  the 
first  of  matter  calling  for  expression,  bowed  his  neck  aud 
set  himself  to  learn  the  trade  of  writing.  Armed  with  two 
books,  one  to  read  and  one  to  write  in,  he  '  played  sedulous 
ape '  to  an  incredible  number  of  authors,  forcing  himself  to 
imitate  their  style,  until  he  had  caught  the  secret  of  eacL 
It  was  a  sure  instinct  that  guided  him  to  this,  for  no 
amount  of  reading  will  so  impress  a  style  upon  one  as  even 
a  little  writing  in  imitation  of  it  will  do.  But  there  are  not 
many  writers  who  have  patience  for  such  toil,  and  the 
result  is  x  mastery  of  rhetoric  which  many  will  envy  who 
174 


us. 


THE    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 

little  dream  that  it  is  in  large  part  the  wward  of  long 
drudgery.  While  still  an  apprentice  he  tried  again  and 
again  to  get  his  work  published,  and  had  it  refused.  Even 
the  Emy  on  Boadt  was  returned.  Back  he  -.ent  to  penny 
note-books  and  drudgery  once  more,  determined  that  if  he 
had  not  yet  learned  to  write,  he  would  learn.  '  Never  mind ' 
says  he  in  1876.  'ten  years  hence  I  shall  have  learned.  .;> 
help  me  God. 

Apprenticeship  over,  the  labour  was  in  no  measure  re- 
laxed. There  is  an  almost  envious  admiration  in  his  venes 
to  Doctor  John  Brown  who.  •  didnae  fash  himsel'  to  think ' : 

'  Ye  sti^iped  your  p«n  into  the  ink, 
An' there  WMRabl' 
With  Stevenson  it  was  very  different.     The  Wrong  Box 
begms  with  a  graphic  account  of  the  labours  involved  in 
wntmg  a  work  of  fiction,  which  after  all  will  serve  but  to 
whUe  away  an  hour  for  the  reader  in  a  railway  train. 
Havmg  attained  to  the  mastery  over  style,  there  is  still 
tt^  matter  which  must  be  mastered  afresh  for  each  new 
book.      Neither   clearness,  compression,   nor   beauty  of 
language  come  to  any  living  creature  till  after  a  busy  and 
prolonged  acquaintance  with  the  subject'    Even  in  fiction 
he  cannot  make  another  end  to  a  story,  however  distasteful 
he  natural  end  may  turn  out  to  be.    'That's  not  the  way 
Iwnte;  the  whole  tale  is  implied;  I  never  use  an  effect. 

olh>w     hat's  what  a  story  consists  in.    To  make  another 

hf'Tu^       '"'''  '''  ''^"""^  '''  ^'*>°S'    So  much 

work  R.^'t'^TTr"'  '""''"^°S  *^«  ^"^t'^^  °f  W« 
work     But  his  troubles  with  style  were  not  over  when  he 

had  learned  the  art  There  are  times  when  he  'breaks 
down  at  eveiy  paragraph.'  and  has  to  'wring  one  sentence 
-tafteranother.'  Few  things,  even  in  the  L.J^' 
««  more  pathetic  than  this:  'I  must  own  that  iZ^i 

178 


:iJ 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    U    STBYBNSON 


it  ^Jiili^ 


overworked  bitterly — overwoiked — there,  that's  legibk 
My  head  is  a  thing  that  was,  aad  in  the  meantime  so  are 
my  brains.'  His  work  disooarages  and  disgusts  him.  He 
took  a  month  to  two  chapters  of  In  the  South  Seas ;  twenty, 
one  days  to  twenty-four  pages  of  17i4  Bhb  Tide;  four  dayi 
to  his  preface  to  An  Inland  Voyage..  He  rewrote  some 
passages  of  his  work  four  times  over:  he  burned  the  entire 
first  draft  of  Dr.  Jdeyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  lest  it  should  tempt 
him,  when  a  criticism  by  his  wife  had  revealed  a  funds- 
mental  flaw  in  it.  The  Parable  of  the  Talents  was  t 
favourite  Scripture  with  him,  and  all  this  was  what  he 
understood  that  parable  to  mean. 

'  Of  making  books  there  is  no  end,'  Stevenson  quotes  from 
the  ancient;  and  he  puts  the  passage  in  a  new  light  bj 
adding  that  the  preacher  '  did  not  perceive  how  highly  he 
was  praismg  letters  as  an  occupation.'  Certainly  he  himself 
had  abundant  opportunity  of  testing  his  loyalty  to  the  pro- 
fession for  *vhich  he  had  risked  everything.  When  those 
trials  were  over  which  beset  the  entcance  of  all  aspirants  in 
literature,  writing  became  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  his  exist- 
ence. It  is  true  that  during  the  last  months  we  have  ao 
undertone  of  melancholy,  and  occasional  acute  fits  of  despond- 
ency ;  but  that  was  when  the  breaking  strain  was  on  him,  and 
even  then  they  are  not  the  characteristic  mood.  Previously, 
for  many  years,  there  had  been  growing  a  record  of  work 
done  under  difficulties  which  it  would  be  hard  to  parallel  in 
any  literary  biography.  His  health  compelled  him  to  travel, 
and  no  one  who  has  not  had  experience  of  it  knows  the 
dead  lift  that  writing  comes  to  be  when  the  mind  is  dis- 
tracted and  the  body  disturbed  by  strange  surroundings  and 
constant  change.  Tet  he  worked  on  steadily,  and  every  sort 
of  uncouth  place  served  him  for  a  study.  The  fight  against 
ill-health  has  been  already  described  to  us  by  himself  in 

*  Fkg«  168. 
176 


THE    INSTINCT    OF    TRAYBL 

fwrdi  modelled  upon  those  of  St  Paul  when  he  telle  the 
•toiy  of  hie  put  conflicts.    As  blow  after  blow  descends,  we 
watch  anxiously,  expecting  to  see  him  succumb  and  cease  to 
strive.    But  after  each  he  rises,  fighting  against  still  more 
impossible  odds,  with  undiminished  valour,  and  with  ever 
finsr  skill.   When  a  temporary  illness  lays  him  on  his  back,  he 
writes  in  bed  one  of  his  most  careful  and  thoughtful  papers, 
the  discourse  on  The  Teehnieal  Mements  in  StyU.    When 
ophthalmia  confines  him  to  a  darkened  room,  he  writes  by 
the  diminished  light    When,  after  hemorrhage,  his  right 
hand  has  to  be  held  in  a  sling,  he  writes  some  of  his  CkMt 
Oarden  with  his  left  hand.    When  the  hemorrhage  has  been 
«o  bad  that  he  dare  not  speak,  he  dicUtes  a  novel  in  the 
deaf-and-dumb  alphabet    The  final  touch  is  added  when  we 
iind  that  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine,  scrivener's  cramp  came 
npon  him  in  addition  to  all  the  rest,  and  forced  him  to  write 
by  proxy,  utilising  the  devoted  and  unfailing  help  of  his 
step-daughter.  Mrs.  Strong.    After  all  this  we  must  allow 
his  claim  to  have  'c'.o*  perhaps  as  much  work  as  anybody 
else  under  the  most  deplorable  conditions."    Scott  himself, 
•fter  the  crash,    .      .    Nft  behind  him  a  more  inspiring 
example  of  indow        .^Jwngth  of  purpose.    The  two  men 


-and  almost  alone,  a^  types  of  that  ^ 


stand  together  a    ' 

splendid  ignorance  o»  the  meaning  of  defeat  on  which 
British  men  most  pride  themselves.  Each  new  assault  of 
outrageous  fortune  they  understand  only  as  a  challenge, 
never  as  a  doom.  Destiny  has  ceased  to  be  an  external  force 
for  them.  They  lay  hands  upon  their  doom  and  hold  it 
prisoner  to  their  will  within,  while  they  push  forward  in 
travel  every  step  of  which  is  heroic.  In  such  circumstances 
the  journey  has  become  a  forced  march  through  a  dangerous 
and  distressful  land.  But  they  drive  on  undiscouraged. 
with  an  unconquerable  energy  which  shows  the  instinct 
of  travel  at  its  bravest 

M  177 


< 


i  'I 


wrw 


If  t' 


THl    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSON 

The  prinoipal  ezpositioiu  of  hia  gocpel  of  work  are  to  be 
ionud  in  Lajf  MoraU,  and  tht  Addrtmn  to  the  FolTnenia 
atadenta  and  ohiefa.  In  the  flnt  of  theae  he  expounds  hia 
(kvourite  doctrine  that  the  negatiTe  Tirtnea  are  m  nothing 
in  compariaon  with  the  poaitire.  '  Acta  may  be  f orgiyen,'  he 
need  to  aaj,  '  not  even  Ood  himaelf  can  forgive  the  hangeN 
back.'  He  did  not  admire  the  virtue  of  thoae  who  merely 
atood  atill  and  refhuned  from  evil.  'We  are  content,'  be 
aajs,  'to  avoid  the  inconvenient  wrong  and  to  forgo  the 
inconvenient  right  with  almoat  equal  aelf-approval,  until  at 
laat  we  make  a  home  for  oar  conadence  among  the  native 
virtnea  and  the  cowardly  vioea.'  It  ia  when  protesting 
againat  this  that  he  givea  t  hia  boldeat  moral  teaching,  and 
at  the  aame  time  comea  into  cicae  and  consciona  unison  with 
Jesus  Christ  It  waa  perhapa  for  this  that  Christ  meant 
most  to  him ;  and  it  may  even  be  said  that  it  waa  by  this  tbi^ 
Christ  saved  him.  For  it  waa  on  this  doctrine  that  Christ 
spoke  many  of  His  most  strenuous  and  moat  heroic  words- 
words  which  never  failed  to  appeal  to  Stevenson.  If  he  missed 
Christ  as  poet,  he  certainly  found  Him  as  hero,  aud  in  no 
part  of  his  work  does  he  so  frequently  lay  claim  to  his  share 
in  Christ  as  in  this.  He  refuses  to  be  '  magnetised  by  the 
ten  commandments,'  but  he  does  not  mean  by  that  anything 
of  the  decadent  sort.  On  the  contrary,  he  disparages  them 
rather  because  they  are  not  sufficiently  drastic.  He  hardly 
admits  that  class  of  virtues  to  be  virtues  at  all,  nor  does  he 
'  care  a  atraw  for  all  the  noU.*  '  We  are  not  damued  for 
doing  wrong,  but  for  not  doing  right ;  Christ  would  never 
hear  of  negative  morality;  thou  thalt  was  ever  his  word, 
with  which  he  superseded  thou  shalt  not.'  So  he  tells  us  in 
his  Christmas  Sermon,  and  goes  on  to  dwell  at  length  on  the 
dangers  of  defiling  our  imagination,  and  introducing  into  our 
judgments  of  ainnera  a  secret  element  of  gusto,  when  we 
make  our  thoughts  on  morality  centre  in  forbidden  acts. 
178 


THl    INBTIlfOT    OF    TRAYlL 

Qaotiog  Christ  d«,wh«,  U  writs..  -Tboa  iluilt  not"  ii 
botMimmple;"tho0sl»lt'i.thel«wofGod.'  'Thediw 
of  omlMion  MsinnjTtewthe  onljserioiuoiw.;  loaUit 
my  Tisw,  bnt  it  ounot  have  MMp«d  yoa   h«t  it  wm  sbo 

^    .  'L^:^  "'  ^^'  "^  ^'^^  8^  ^^  tht 
•totsmentoftheUwofnsgttiTsfc   "  To  lovs  one*,  neighbour 
M  oneeelf  ••  i.  oertainly  much  herter.  but  etetee  life  w  much 
mote  actively.  gUdly  „d  kindly,  that  you  cw  begin  to  .ee 
jo».  pleMure  in  it;  and  tiU  you  can  ««  pleaaure  in  theee 
h«i  choioes  and  bitter  necoHitiee.  where  is  there  any  good 
Mwt  to  men  1    It  is  much  more  important  to  do  right  than 
not  to  do  wrong;  further,  the  one  i.  possible,  the  other  has 
-ways  be«,  and  will  always  be  imposriWe ;  and  the  faithful 
imgntodoiyht  is  accepted  by  God;  that  seems  to  me  to 
ta  the  Gospel,  and  that  was  how  Christ  deUvered  us  from 
the  lAw.  .       It  is  your  business.  (1)  to  find  out  what  is 

^L't^Ti^J"\"^'  "^  ^'^  **>  ''y  to  do  it;  if  you  faU 
in  the  hMt.  that  is  by  commission.  Christ  tells  you  to  hoM  • 
If  you  fdl  in  the  first,  that  is  by  omission,  hi.  picture  of  ^e' 
iMt  day  give,  you  but  a  bUusk  outlook.' 
-^t  is  the  moral  aspect  of         enson's  gcpel  of  work 

wWe  Carlyles  kbour  was  generally  a  .evere  and  wmbro 
Ideal,  Stevemwu^  wa.  for  the  met  part  a  wuwe  of  gladnew 
Md  uphftmg.    It  i.  true  that  one  of  the  most  perfect  piece, 
of  portraiture  he  ha.  given  u.  i.  that  of  Weir  of  HenLton 
--  On  he  went  up  the  great  bare  staircaw  of  hi.  duty  un- 
cheered  and  undepreweA'    But  that  i.  by  no  mean,  all  he 
h«  to  «iy  u^n  the  .ubject    A  .tory  is  told  by  hi.  grand- 
father  m  A  Famxly  of  Bngineer;  which  might  .tandL  a 
parable  of  the  graudwu'.  faith.     On  a  foggy  d  y  a  shio 
Wenwith  .toneefor  the  Bell  Bock  Lighthouee. w«  .tee4' 
•tnught  upon  the  rock,  and  would  inevitably  have  been 
destroyed,  when  the  «ulors  heard  the  sound  of  the  wnith'. 

179 


I 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBYBMSOll 

hamiMff  and  miyII  right  thMd,  and  in  *H«  niok  of  time  pot 
the  helm  eb^qt  end  eeved  her.  In  like  menner  did  work 
Mve  Sterenfeun't  ihip  of  life,  and  it  seTed  hie  faith  aa  well. 
Faith  erer  oame  to  him  eaaentiallj  aa  faithfnlnM*.  Like 
-JL  Jamea  the  Apoatle,  he  found  hia  faith  better  expreaaed  in 
worka  than  in  theoriee.  To  exercise  hia  powera  to  the  full, 
to  live  at  the  ntmoat  stretch  and  tenaion  for  auoh  right  endi 
of  living  aa  were  dear  to  him,  that  waa  hia  waj  of  approach- 
ing religion.  Vitality  and  whole  •  heartednesa  in  one'i 
attack  upon  the  practical  problem  of  life — ao  far  he  could 
alwaya  aee  plainly. 

Bat  to  aee  plainly  ao  far  ia  to  be  on  the  way  to  see  more. 
To  the  "i  of  time  the  great  worda  remain  tme.  If  any 
Num  wJMk  to  do  Hii  toiU,  he  $haU  know  of  the  doetrint. 
There  ia  no  hope  of  a  man'a  finding  a  faith  that  will  satisfy 
Iiim  until  he  ia  prepared  to  do  the  neareat  duty  that  he 
knowa.  There  are  aome  who  seem  to  think  that  faith  in 
God  is  a  apecial  faculty,  wholly  diaconneoted  from  the  rest 
of  life,  80  that  a  man  may  be  a  good  atudent,  or  an  able 
merchant,  or  an  intelligent  craftaman,  and  yet  lack  the 
power  to  be  a  religioua  man.  It  ia  even  anppoaed  that  one 
may  be  faithful  in  morals  and  may  succeed  in  obeying  the 
demanda  of  conscience,  while  still  lie  is  doomed  to  spiritual 
ineffectivenfsa  and  darkness.  Nothing  could  be  more  untrue 
to  facta.  There  ia  no  such  thing  as  a  religious  faculty 
which  men  highly  gifted  in  other  departments  of  life  may 
wholly  lack.  The  religious  f-culty  is  identical  with  the 
faculty  for  study  or  for  !*n>  .  .jr  kind  of  work.  If  a  man 
,  have  proved  that  he  can  succeed  in  any  of  them,  he  may 
\  take  it  for  certain  that  he  can,  if  he  will,  aucceed  in  the 
i  religious  life  also.  His  capacity  for  success  in  religion  is 
but  the  application  of  his  ordinary  human  powers  to  another 
set  of  facta.  He  who  has  it  in  him  efficiently  to  serve  his 
employers,  or  his  conscience— or  for  that  matter  the  devil- 
ISO 


THl    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 

hM  it  iD  him  aUo  to  lenre  God.  No  tnui  who  does  hie  dai'./ 
work  stnnnoiul^  and  affectively  aa  Stevenaon  did  hia,  ia 
debarred  from  a  atreuuoua  and  effective  reliipotu  life.    We 
may  go  forther,  and  aay  that  he  who  doea  hia  daily  work  in 
that  faahion  ia  already  aerving  God.     He  may  indeed  be 
anoonaciona  of  the  fact,  but  if  he  remain  faithful,  and  if  no 
perverae  theory  of  life  be  allowed  to  warp  hia  conaoience  and 
dim  hia  apiritual  viaion,  he  ihall  aooner  or  hiter  diacover 
the  higher  aervice.     Of  Stevenaon  thia  waa  magnificently 
true.     Taking   for  hia  rule  of  life  the   Parable  of  the 
TaleuU.  he  could  not  but  be  aware  of  a  I  oi  i  who  had  com- 
mitted them  to  hia  charge.    It  waa  not  his  part  to  apeculate 
y  about  Ood,  but  to  obey  Him- to  think  and  act  ao  that  He 
would  approve.    Thue,  behind  tlie  energiea  of  hia  life  there 
was  the  conaciouanesa  of  the  unseen  Maater  of  life ;  behind 
his  faithfulness  there  waa  faith.    It  is  true  Uiat  none  of 
God's  servante  alwaya  realiaes  the  presence  of  the  Maater.  ) 
To  all  of  the.u,  too  often.  He  ia  aa  a  man  journeying  in  a  far  \ 
country.    But  the  realiaation  of  God  near  and  not  far  off  ia 
ever  possible ;  and  the  test  of  faithfulness,  in  the  religions  { 
sense,  ia  the  constancy  and  vividness  of  that  realisation. 
Stevenson  certainly  wrought  out  his  life-work  under  a  high 
•nd  solemn  sense  of  the  great  Taskmaster's  eye.    Often  he 
realised  it  so  keenly  as  to  enter  into  that  divine  feJ'c  -ship 
of  labour  in  which  a  man  can  say  my  Father  worketh    :  '<erto 
and  I  work.    It  ia  this  that  he  expresses  in  the  song  which 
is  at  once  the  most  bracing  and  the  most  religious  of  all  his 
utterances : 

'  0  to  be  up  and  doiag,  0 
Unfearing  and  unihamed  to  go 
In  all  the  uproar  and  the  prcM 
About  my  human  business  !  .  .  . 
For  itill  the  Lord  ia  Lord  of  might ; 
In  deeds,  in  deeds  he  takes  delight ; 
The  {dough,  the  spear,  the  laden  barks, 
The  field,  the  founded  dtjr,  marks ; 

181 


i  A 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

He  tuAM  the  imiler  of  the  itnete, 
The  singer  np(m  gudco  aeets ; 
He  eeee  the  climber  bk  the  racks : 
To  him,  the  shepherd  folds  his  flocks . . . 
Those  he  i4>proT«a  thKS.  ply  the  tnde, 
That  rook  the  oUld.  that  wed  the  maid, 
That  with  weak  riitaes,  weaker  hands, 
Sow  gladness  on  the  peopled  lands, 
And  still  with  Linghter,  song  and  shoat, 
Spin  the  great  wheel  ot  earth  about' 

About  such  an  Instinct  of  Travel,  and  its  consequent 
association  with  wandering  vagabonds  and  gipsies,  ordinary 
folk  who  bide  at  home  at  ease  are  likely  to  feel  a  certain 
sense  of  homelessness,  both  in  regard  to  ito  physical  and  its 
moral  aspects.    It  is  very  breezy  and  healthful,  but  there  is 
a  bleakness  about  the  open  air  if  there  be  no  fireside  to 
return  to  at  nightfalL    We  may  admit  that '  to  travel  hope- 
fully is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive';  and  yet,  if  there  never 
is  any  arriving,  it  grows  difficult  to  travel  hopefully.    Must 
we  then  consider  this  spirit  of  wandering  as  part  of  an 
unhomely  and  fantastic  strain  in  his  nature,  which  so  far 
keeps  him  aloof  from  us?    To  some  extent  it  is  true  that 
he  professes  no  desire  to  arrive,  and  cherishes  no  thoughts 
beyond  travelling  for  travel's  sake.     In  his  intellectual 
point  of  view  this  is  entirely  the  case.    To  try  to  pin  him 
down  to  any  closed  and  final  theory  of  life  would  be  to 
show  oneself  incompetent  to  write  a  line  about  him.    In  his 
thinking  he  is  always  aware  of  a  further  place  to  which  the 
road  is  leading,  and  he  plainly  leaves  himself  open  for 
advance.    The  theories  he  may  express  are  but  tba  wayside 
inns  where  he  tarries  till  he  must  start  again  on  new 
adventures.    This  is  why  it  is  so  impossible  to  aUocate  for 
him  a  defined  and  classified  place  among  the  doctrines.    He 
is  essentially  a  traveller,  and  our  conception  of  his  faith  is 
that  of  one  upon  whom  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  has  come 
182 


THE    INSTINCT    OF    TRAVEL 

while  he  presses  forward,  and  who  travels  as  one  of  the 
company  of  the  sons  of  God. 

Tet  there  is  another  side  to  his  character,  in  virtae  of 
which  he  feels  the  discomfort  of  the  open,  and  longs  for  the 
warmth  and  kindliness  of  the  chimney-comer.     In  many 
passages  of  great  tenderness  this  sentiment  of  home  appears, 
even  in  connection  with  physical  travel.    At  the  close  of 
the  voyage  he  too  grows  weary  of  dipping  the  paddle,  and 
ready  for  home.    'Ton  may  paddle  all  day  long ;  but  it  is 
when  you  come  back  at  nightfall,  and   look  in   at  the 
familiar  room,  that  you  find  love  or  death  awaiting  you 
beside  the  stove;  and  the  most  beautiful  adventures  are  not 
those  we  go  to  seek.'    How  passionately  the  longing  could 
possess  him,  is  familiar  to  all  those  who  have  read  the 
thoughts  of  home  from   abroad    in  Songs  of  Travel  and 
Vailima  Letters.    In  a  deeper  sense,  as  it  concerned  the 
inward  life,  the  same  thing  is  true.    Apparently  an  unrest- 
ing traveller  in  the  spiritual  country,  he  yet  had  come  to 
rest  upon  certain  great  convictions,  in  which  his  spirit  had 
its  home.    These  he  expresses  often  with  an  evident  sense 
of  relief  and  the  comfortable  peace  of  assuranca    In  the 
longest  journey  of   all,  the   lifelong  journey,  the   same 
shadowy  but  hospitable  and  firelit  sweetness  awaits  its 
close.    The  Covenanters  pass  the  dark  river  amid  a  'storm 
of  harsh  and  fiercely  jubilant  noises '  which  add  a  tenfold 
peacefulness  to  the  shores  which  they  had  reached.    For 
himself,  who  does  not  know  the  Beguiem  which,  written 
seven  years  before  his  death,  was  inscribed  upon  his  tomb- 
stone at  the  last : 


'  Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Ohd  did  I  live  and  ghdly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

183 


■is 
i" 

•  f 


THE    FAITH    OP    71.    L.    STBYBNSON 

Thia  be  the  rane  jo/a  gnve  for  m* ; 
BmhtliuiahtnluUmttdtobt; 
Horn*  w  th$  taOor,  horns  from  ma, 
^ndtktkwUtr  horn  from  At  hOL' 

Such  words  imply  more  than  they  ezpreM ;  perhaps  they 
mean  more  than  the  speaker  knows.  In  them  we  hear 
echoes  of  a  great  voice  that  calls  home  the  thinker  to  faith, 
the  straggler  to  achievement,  and  the  dead  from  dying  to  a 
new  life.  And  so  there  is  arrival  as  well  as  travel,  after 
alL  Indeed  the  two  are  combined  in  regard  to  faith,  and 
achievement,  and  that  dimly  seen  but  beautiful  country 
beyond  the  grave.  In  all  these,  the  true  life  is  at  once 
making  for  a  laud  that  is  very  far  off,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  it  is  ever  coming  home. 


■fl 


184 


STMPATHT    AND    APPRECIATION 


CHAPTER    XI 


SYMPATHY  AND  APPRECIATION 

Wt  have  endeavoured  to  depict  a  personality  whose  funda- 
mental  faculties  were  vision  and  travel,  and  to  show  how 
these  expressed  tliemselves  in  life,  both  physical  and 
apmtual.  The  task  which  now  remains  for  us  is  that  of 
following  the  same  faculties  up  into  the  ideals  which  chiefly 
guided  and  ruled  his  character.  How  did  they  define  for 
hun  the  chief  duties  of  man  ?  What  was  the  message 
which  he  prodaimed  to  the  world  by  his  teaching  and  his 
hfe?  In  a  word,  what  did  life  essentially  mean  to  him, 
M  vision  and  travel  wrought  out  its  meaning  ? 

First  of  aU,  as  it  concerned  others,  the  meaning  of  life 
and  the  message  he  learned  and  delivered,  may  be  summed 
«P  as  sympathy  and  appreciation.     We  have  seen  how 
strongly  the  spectacle  of  the  world  appealed  to  him.    Life 
at  his  command,  becomes  pageantry  at  times,  and  the  figures 
Of  history  or  of  experience  march  past  our  wondering  eyes 
at  the  bidding  of  a  consummate  master  of  spectacle     We 
have  noted  also  the  geographical  sense,  which  feehi  the 
mdth  of  the  world,  delights  in  sky-room  and  sea-room,  and 
the  broad  stretch  of  the  peopled  lands;  and  which  keeps 
hnu  m  every  place  aware  of  his  relation  to  aU  other  places 
isvery  one  must  have    noted    those  frequently  recurring 
catalogues  in  which  he  bring,  together  things  and  persons 
apparently  unrehited.    Now  it  is  'Books,  and  my  food,  and 

186 


i 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    BTBYBNSON 

summer  rain';  agaiii  'the  State,  the  Choiohes,  peopled 
empires,  war  and  the  ramours  of  war,  and  the  voices  of  the 
Arts.'  On  the  world's  great  floor  we  see  with  one  sweep 
of  the  eye  troops  swaying  hither  and  thither  in  battle, 
astronomers  finding  new  stars,  actors  performing  in  lighted 
theatres,  and  people  being  carried  to  hospitals  on  stretchers. 
In  one  of  his  prayers  he  contrasts  the  handful  of  men  on 
the  island  with  the  myriads  of  trees  and  the  teeming  fishes, 
and  prays  that  they  may  understand  the  lesson  of  the  trees 
and  the  meaning  of  the  fishes:  'Let  us  see  ourselves  for 
what  we  are,  one  out  of  the  countless  number  of  the  clans 
of  Thy  handiwork.  When  we  would  despair,  let  us  re* 
member  that  these  also  please  and  serve  Thee.'  Thus  does 
he  move  about  the  crowded  world, '  catholic  as  none  but  the 
entirely  idle  can  be  catholic,'  yet  busy  with  all  the  interests 
of  which  his  versatile  nature  is  capable:  sitting  loose  for 
any  wind  to  play  upon,  yet  always  ready  to  devote  his  whole 
soul  to  the  pursuit  which  has  chanced  to  take  his  fancy. 

This  catholicity  was  due  first  of  all  to  the  many-sidedness 
of  his  own  nature.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was  tolerant 
of  many  different  phases  of  life,  and  hospitable  to  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  interests,  whether  of  occupation  or  of 
companionship.  He  was  himself  alive  at  so  many  points, 
that  each  new  appeal  to  his  interest  awoke  a  whole-hearted 
response.  To  travel  about  in  the  world  was  to  pass  through 
a  constant  succession  of  congenial  experiences,  and  to  dis- 
cover that  there  was  hardly  anything  between  north  and 
south  which  was  really  alien  to  him.  He  had  little  patience 
with  the  cramping  and  narrowing  devotion  to  any  specialism, 
whether  in  science  or  in  nationality.  He  cherished  no 
reverence  for  the  man  who  is  above  all  others  'in  the 
classification  of  toad-stools,  or  Carthaginian  history ' ;  and 
in  the  South  Seat  he  repudiated  the  narrowness  of  British 
prejudices,  and  gloried  in  the  fact  that  his  brotherhood  with 
186 


STMPATHT    AND    APPABOIATION 

die  natiras  had  given  him  the  right  to  pronounce  himself  a 
mui  of  two  civiliaationa.  It  i«  no  idle  ennoaitjr.  but  the 
extaordmaiy  richnew  of  hi.  miture,  which  give,  such 
worid-wide  range  to  hi.  intereate,  and  .uch  in  .ndty  to 
mh  a.  it  poMewe.  him  for  the  time  being.  As  a  youth, 
he  wntes  a.  If  he  were  an  aged  man;  in  middle  age  he 
expreue.  the  heart  of  a  UtUe  chUd.  Braxfield  the  man  of 
iron,  and  Prince  Otto  the  man  of  shadows,  claim  an  equal 
•hwe  m  hu  appreciation. 

CthoUcitjr  is  confewedly  a  dangerous  principle  in  morals. 
Those  whose  wide  sympathies  send  them  voyaging  on  many  ( 
MM  need  an  unusually  clear  judgment  to  steer  their  vessd  ' 
pMt  rocks.    Stevenson'«  sanity  and  soundness  are  nowhere 
more  remarkable  than  in  this.    His  cathoUc  habit  of  mind 
enabks  him  to  detect  the  one-sidedness  of  much  popular 
morahty.    He  understands  the  error  of  those  who  denounce 
«y  excess  of  natural  appetite,  but  have  a  quite  different 
standard  'for  all   di.pkys  of  the  truly  diaboUc-envy 

Zlfw.    K  T"  "'•  '^'  °^«"  *"«"«'•  '^^  calumnious 
tnia.  the  backbiter,  the  pet.y  ty«»nt.  the  peevish  poisoner 
of  famdy   hfe.'     This    he   has    undoubtedly  leaked  of 
Ornst,  m  whose  treatment  of  moral  questions  there  is  a 
staadmg  protest  against  just  that  one-sidedness  in  moral 
judgment,  a  protest  which  Christendom  has  not  yet  laid 
to  heait     He  perceives,  too.  the  relativity  of  morab.  al- 
ttongh  he  does  not  allow  that  perception  to  blind  him  to  the 
^ousness  of  the  issues  involved.    ♦  There  is  no  quite  good 
Wk  without  a  good  morality.'  he  says  regarding  D'lrta^an. 
but  the  world  is  wide,  and  so  are  monUs.     .  .  O^wo 
^^ers,  one  shall  have  been  pained  by  the  morality  of  a 
^ous  memoir,  one  by  that  of  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne. 
^  the  pomt  IS  that  neither  need  be  wrong.    We  always 
A^k  each  other,  both  in  life  and  art.     He  ^  equally  Z 
to  the  change  and  development  in  moral  ideal,  which  goes 

187 


>  i 


m 


mi 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 


h ' 


I 


{ 


on  with  the  passing  of  time.    Every  student  of  history 

knows  how  true  this  is  of  successive  periods,  one  age  having 

strenuousnesfl  for  its  ideal  virtue  to  the  disparagement  of 

compassion;  another,  kindliness  to  the  n^lect  of  purity. 

In  the  individual  life  it  is  the  same:  'What  was  the  best 

yesterday,  h  it  still  the  best  in  this  changed  theatre  of  a 

to-morrow  ?    Will  your  own  past  'ruly  guide  you  in  your 

own  violent  and  unexpected  future  ? '    This  variableness  of 

conscience  in  its  view  of  moral  values  appears  most  clearly 

in  the  unceasing  rivalry  of  Qreek  and  Hebrew  ideals— the 

humane  and  gracious,  as  against  the  severe  and  ascetic. 

The  attraction  of  one  or  other  of  these  depends  upon  the 

point  of  view  of  the  age  or  individual;  and  the  point  of 

view  is  determined   by  a  thousand  details  of  heredity, 

education,  society,  and  circumstances.     The   bigot  takes 

none  of  these  into  account  in  his  harsh  and  damnatoty 

judgment ;  the  moral  trifler  pronounces  one  way  as  good  as 

another,  and  loses  all  sense  of  reality  in  moral  distinctions. 

From   the    former  danger  Stevenson  was    saved    by  his 

catholicity,  from  the  latter  by  his  moral  earnestness.    He 

sets  himself  against  the  injustice  of  sweeping  condemnations 

by  those  who  see  only  one  side  of  the  question  and  maite 

no  allowance ;  but  he  insists  upon  the  reality  of  right  and 

wrong  in  a  man's  obedience  or  disobedience  to  the  light  be 

has.   Above  all  he  falls  back  upon  certain  general  principles, 

which  remain  for  ou '  guiJ'.uce  through  all  perplexities  and 

dilemmas — chiefly  the  spirit  of  magnanimity  and  the  spirit 

of  harmony.    It  can  never  be  wrong  in  any  circumstances, 

he  would  have  us  believe,  to  choose  the  greater  instead  of 

the  meaner  course;  and  if  we  find  ourselves  able  to  look 

beyond  the  immediate  demand  for  action  in  the  moment, 

let  it  not  be  to  reward  that  we  turn  our  eyes,  but  rather  to 

the  relation  of  the  proposed  action  to  the  general  purpose 

and  balanced  harmony  of  the  life. 

188 


SYMPATHY    AND    APPRECIATION 

In  religion,  catholic  sentiments  are  receiving  a  wider  and 
more  sympAthetio  aadienoe  to^ay  than  the  conditions  of 
the  past  allowed.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  that  as  the  smoke  of 
battle  clears  away,  many  of  the  soldiers  may  find  that  their 
snpposed  enemies  are  but  other  regiments  in  one  great 
army,  and  that  the  difference  between  them  is  rather  one 
of  nniform  than  of  loyalty.  So  Stevenson  most  heartily 
believed.  In  the  tenderness  of  A  Lowdm  Sabbath  Mvm  there 
is  a  wide  cathoUcity.  The  tears  are  not  far  away  while  ho 
writes  of  the  bell  swinging  in  the  steeple,  that  caUs  tLe 
scattered  fanuly  to  their  meeting  among  the  graves  of  the 
churchyard,  and 

'  Jurt  %  wee  tiling  nearer  brings 
The  quick  an'  deid.' 

There  is  a  great  love  for  them  all— the  weary  ploughman 
'perplextwi' leisure';  the  serious-faced  congregation,  with 
their  peppermints  and  southernwood, '  fisslin'  for  the  text '  • 
the  'auld  precentor  hoastin'  sair';  ay,  and  the  'minister 
himsel'.'  Yet  he  cannot  resist  the  chance  of  saying  his  say 
about  the  sermon : 


•  Wi'  sappy  unotion,  how  he  burkes 
The  hopes  o'  men  that  trust  in  works. 
Expounds  the  fau'ts  o'  ither  kirks, 

An'  shawtt  the  best  o'  them 
No  muckle  better  than  mere  Turks, 

When  a 's  confessed  o'  them. 

Be  thankit  I  what  a  bonny  creed  I 
What  mair  would  ony  Christian  need  ?— 
The  braw  words  rumm'le  ower  his  heid, 

Nor  steer  the  sleeper ; 
And  in  their  restin'  graves,  the  deid 

Sleep  aye  the  deepr 

It  is  the  same  in  France.    When  the  parish  priest  would 
have  converted  him  to  the  Roman  faith,  he  defended  himeelf 

189 


i 


i 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.   L.   STBYINBON 

with  the  plea  th«»  th«j  were  ell  drewing  neeT  hj  different 
■idee  to  the  leme  Friend  end  Father.  '  ^let,  ee  it  leemi  to 
lej-ipirite,  would  be  the  only  goepel  worthy  of  the  name, 
Bat  dilEnent  men  think  differently.'  The  moet  interesting 
end  the  finest  of  ell  each  pleas  is  told  in  the  story  of  bit 
meeting  with  a  Plymouth  Brother  in  the  Cevennee : — 

'A  step  or  two  farther  I  was  orertaken  by  an  old  man  in  i 
brown  nighteap,  elear-eyed,  weatherbeaten,  with  a  faint  ezeittd 
smile.  A  little  girl  followed  him,  driring  two  sheep  and  t 
goat;  bat  she  kept  in  oar  wake,  while  the  old  man  walked 
beside  me  and  talked  about  the  morning  and  the  ralley.  It 
was  not  maeh  past  six;  and  for  healthy  people  who  have  iltpt 
enough,  that  is  an  hour  of  expansion  and  of  open  and  tnutrnl 
talk. 

' " ClmnaiiMS-foiM U Stignnrf" he  saii^  s*  length. 

'  I  asked  him  what  Seigneur  he  meant ;  bat  he  only  repeated 
the  question  with  more  emphasis  and  a  look  in  his  eyes  denoting 
hope  and  interest 

' "  Ah,"  said  I,  pointing  upwards,  "  I  understand  you  now. 
Yes,  I  know  Him ;  He  is  the  beat  of  acquaintances." 

'The  old  man  aaid  he  waa  delighted  "Hold,"  he  added, 
atriking  hia  boaoiu ;  "it  nukea  me  happy  here."  There  were i 
few  who  knew  the  Lord  in  theae  valleya,  he  went  on  to  tell  me; 
not  many,  but  a  few.  "Many  are  cidled,"  he  quoted,  *'a&d 
few  chosen." 

< "  My  father,"  said  I,  "  it  ia  not  eaay  to  aay  who  know  the 
Lord ;  and  it  is  none  of  our  bnaineaa.  Proteatanta  and  Catholiei, 
and  even  thoae  who  worahip  stones,  may  know  Him  and  be 
known  by  Him ;  for  He  has  made  all." ' 

The  last  sentence  reminds  us  of  the  great  reception-hall  of 
his  Samoan  house.  There  a  broad  staircase  led  up  from 
.06  centre  of  the  hall  to  the  upper  floor,  and  on  either  side 
of  it,  by  the  great  posts  which  sprang  from  the  bottom  stepi 
to  the  roof,  sat  two  Burmese  idols,  their  hands  folded  as  in 
prayer.  It  was  there  that  the  family  prayers  were  con- 
ducted, and  the  thought  of  these  Asiatic  deities  of  forma 
days  watching  the  prayers  of  the  islanders,  who  had  oat 
190 


8TMPATHT    AND    APPRBOIATION 

jmiMdaj  toned  from  their  own  idoletriee  to  the  wonhip  of 
Chr  It,  ia  cariooalj  iTmbolia    Stevenson  h»d  indeed  '•/ 
greet  end  oool  eUowenee  for  ell  sorte  of  people  end  opinioi  e.'S 
In  this,  es  in  m»nj  other  metten.  he  has  sometimee  used 
oogiuided  end  ebsolnte  expressions  from  which  something 
mnst  be  deducted.    Yet  when  he  spedu  of  a  deeper  and 
eiMntial  unity  beneath  the   surface  diffeienoee  in  the 
opinions  of  honest  men,  he  utters  a  profound  and  most 
pracious  truth.    If  in  the  preeent  age  then  be  one  thing 
which  becomes  daily  more  evident  than  any  other,  it  is 
that  earnest  thinkers  who  have  counted  themselves  far 
apart  from  each  other  in  the  past,  are  reaUy  very  near  at 
hand;  they  often  speak  words  that  seem  to  differ,  t  hile 
e  3entially  they  mean  the  same  thing. 

Interested  in  all  the  aspects  of  life,  and  catholic  in  his 
twnperwhUe  judging  them,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  he 
ihould  set  peculiar  value  on  the  virtue  of  fainu  as  in  judg- 
ment   He  confesses  that  he  has  never  found  it  easy  to  be 
just,  and  it  is  a  confession  which  every  earnest  man  must 
BBake.    Almost  anything  is,  in  fact,  easier.    Severity  on  the 
one  hand  appearing  in  the  guise  of  faithfulness  to  conviction, 
lax  indifference  on  thfl  othei  under  the  name  of  good-nature,' 
tempt  us  aU  from  the  straight  path.    Stevenson  delightedly 
recaUs  Montaigne's  famous  question,  'Shall  we  not  dare  to 
say  of  a  thief  that  he  has  a  handsome  leg  ? '    But  he  knows 
how  difficult  many  conscientious  persons  will  find  it  to 
admit  even  that    Few  passages  that  he  ever  wrote  are 
stronger  or  more  far-seeing  than  Chapter  iv.  of  Weir  of 
Semitton,  in  which  this  difficulty  is  most  finely  expressed. 
Anshie  is  in  miserable  rebeUion  against  the  brutality  of 
his  father's  character.    Glenalmond,  that  rare  and  deUcate 
spirit,  replies:  'We  say  we  sometimes  find  him  coar«,  but 
I   aspect  he  might  retort  that  he  finds  us  always  dull . . . 
and  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  you  and  I— who  ar^  a 

191 


I 


I 


-    ■■■i»tay 


': 


txmwK-^mm^ 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STlYBNSOlf 

pdr  of  MntiiiMBtalitto— M«  quite  good  jndgM  of  plain  mei 
The  gnat  difficulty  i«  in  dotMhmnit  We  are,  to  beg 
with,  identified  with  <ae  perty  to  the  truuaction.  He  tel 
an  amnaing  itorj  of  his  grandmother  which  illnstiat 
onr  point.  A  piooi  oronj  of  hen  had  fallen  from  i 
outside  stair,  and  Mrs.  Stevenson  recognised  a  speci 
proTidence  in  the  oircumstanoe  that  a  baker  had  bet 
passing  underneath  with  his  bread  upon  his  head.  Tl 
'^grandfather's  remark  was  that  he  would  like  to  know  wh 
l)dod  of  protidence  the  baker  thought  it  That  was  er( 
Stevenson's  point  of  view— to  ask  how  a  matter  looked  wh( 
detached  from  the  special  preconceptions  of  one  side;  hoi 
in  short,  it  looked  to  the  baker. 

The  most  familiar  example  of  this  fairness  in  judgment  i 
aflTorded  us  by  his  views  of  the  Samoan  natives  and  of  tli 
white  men  who  dealt  with  them.  It  is  not  pity  for  thei 
that  he  chiefly  feels  or  pleads  for,  but  only  just  jndgmeo 
He  regards  them  as  perfectly  competent  to  stand  their  tiii 
by  any  fair-minded  man,  and  for  the  last  four  years  of  hi 
life-time  he  proclaimed  this  unceasingly.  He  insisted  o 
'  the  vast  amount  of  moral  force  reservoired  in  every  race 
and  entreated  all  white  men  to  study  and  encourage  that  i 
natives.  This  was  no  mere  opinion  accepted  withru 
investigation  to  buttress  an  adopted  theory.  It  was  th 
result  of  minute  and  interested  observation  of  a  race  whici 
he  loved  ever  better  as  he  knew  it  more  intimately.  No 
thing  is  moio  striking  than  his  methods  of  pursuing  savag 
psychology — a  science  which  he  vigorously  champions.  E 
drew  out  native  tales  by  the  bait  of  Scottish  ones  which  h 
told  the  Samoans ;  for  in  truth  the  parallel  is  often  close 
and  the  one  great  secret  of  his  success  with  the  natives  aD( 
of  his  interest  in  them  is  simply  this,  that  he  found  them  tt 
remaricably  like  our  Scottish  selves.  It  is  almost  amusiiij 
to  note  how  all  his  South  Sea  work  is  written  on  the  defen 
192 


8TMPATRT    AKD    APPRloiATION 

rii«,aBdwitiiwhtttvi(l«it«go7iMiitlMtiinittht«dg«  of 
eritidm  by  nmindiag  BoiopMat  th«t  thty  an  u  Ud  or 
worn  thM  the  Pdjimiua,  The  ItUodert'  dtYU-work.  thtir 
l^pt,  uid  •  good  1DM17  other  ways  of  theirs  1mt«  cooator. 
pard  DMT  home.    Their  honour  and  their  simple  goodness 
•M  sometimes  held  np  m  models  for  the  whitee.    It  is  the 
MM  in  his  treatment  of  Boropeans.    WhatSTsr  may  be 
Mid  of  his  foriotts  defence  of  Father  Damien.  this  at  least  is 
owtaio.  that  it  was  prompted  by  a  burning  desire  to  light 
the  mmnoiy  of  one  whom  he  beUered  to  have  been  groesly 
ibndered.    He  refnsed  to  receive  any  emdnment  for  it 
•iaoeit  WM  apersonal  attack,  and  his  share  of  the  profits' 
wmient  direct  from  the  publisher  to  the  funds  of  the  leper 
irttlement     The  Footnof  to  HitUmf  is   a  still  greater 
JMtoace.    In  it  he  sacrificed  not  money,  but  what  wu  more 
P««i«M  to  him.  Uterary  elTect  and  careful  expression.    He 

wrote  it  not  as  Uteraturo  but  as  a  plain  appeal  for  jusUce  to 
«  iU.govemed  people.    In  the  course  of  it  he  had  to  say 
many  hard  things  about  European  oifioials  in  Samoa,  but 
the  book  is  a  standing  monument  of  fairness.    Personal 
bittemess  is  singularly  absent     He  observes  with   rare 
Mehty  the  rule  of  separating  the  pointo  in  dispute  tnm  the 
wit  of  his  reUtions  with  those  concerned.    Some  of  them 
bed  been,  and  remained,  his  personal  friends  through  all  the 
ooBteet    The  Chief-Justice,  for  instance,  he  likes,  and  even 
tom-'No.  sir,  I  can't  dislike  him ;  but  if  I  can't  make  hay 
»^him  it  shaU  not  be  for  want  of  trying.'    Altogether  the 
'Weoto  IS  a  singularly  good  and  great  book.   Wherewiong 
w«8  being  done  to  the  native  race,  he  risked  everything 
thrt  he  might  right  ii    Yet  he  did  so  without  any  touch 
of  ipite  or  any  slightest  indulgence  in  the  meaner  passions 
^  controversy.     It  does  not  surprise  us  when  he  asserts 
ttft  It  had  proved  'a  means  of  grace '  to  him j  for  indeed 
»ti8  the  Christian  way  of  writing  history. 


i  • 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.   STITBHSON 


m 


Tht  MOtk  whieh  nndtrlitt  all  ftiirptw  of  JvdgmtBt  and 
tiM  sjmpAtliy  tad  ^ppnd«tkNi,  !•  that  of  patting  oiMMlf  ii 
tho  plMM  of  otbon,  and  ftppioiviAtiiig  th*  sitwtbn  so  u  to 
eonotiTt  it  from  within  and  not  from  without  H«  plwula 
for  this  in  th«  inctanco  of  th«  SamoMH,  and  charaotoriatioaUy 
adds,  '  It  is  th«  proof  of  not  hoing  a  barbarian,  to  bo  abla  to 
tntar  into  wmiothing  oataide  of  onaaalf,  aomtthing  that  doM 
not  Vnoh  ona'a  ntzt  noighbonr  in  tht  city  omniboa.'  H« 
lajt  it  down  aa  an  eaatntial  dnty  of  the  poet*  that  be  shall  bi 
abla  to  antar  into  tha  minda  of  othara,  and  axjwaaa  for  thea 
idMls  whieh  ara  already  there,  thongh  nnexpreaaed.  In  all 
this  we  aee  how  far  remored  hia  Tiew  of  hia  felloW'inen  it 
firom  a  oold  and  diapaaaionate  atudy  of  hnman  natvre.  All 
hia  kewn  powera  of  pqrchdogioal  and  moral  inaight,  and  hit 
immenae  eneigjr  of  imagination,  are  bent  on  the  task  of 
eatimating  jnatly  the  acta  and  motivea  of  the  livaa  aronnd 
him. 

For  thia  hia  writing  gave  him  a  wide  and  open  field,  and  it 
is  because  of  hia  extraordinary  power  of  patting  himself  in 
t^e  place  of  othera  that  the  oharaotera  are  ao  natural  aud  the 
sitoationa  ao  impraaaiTe.  He  UM  the  mortification  of  mea 
doomed  to  bear  groteaqne  namea,  as  if  he  himself  had  beea 
called  Pym  or  Habakknk.  He  writhed  in  impossible  monl 
and  aocial  situations,  in  the  person  of  the  wife  of  Durrisdeor 
Mid  Archie  Weir.  He  thought  of  the  lives  of  those  who 
crossed  his  path,  whether  they  were  civilised  or  savage,  m 
if  he  had  to  live  them  himaelf,  and  traced  out  their  inner 
experience  and  outward  adventure  with  a  personal  aniietj 
and  excitement  It  is  probable  that  there  is  in  the  language 
no  finer  piece  of  sympathetic  interpretation  of  another's  lift 
than  hia  essay  on  Ifunes,  whose  insight  had  been  quickened 
by  much  love  and  gratitude.  Ton  feel  there  the  affection  (or 
aucottsive  children  twining  itself  round  a  woman's  tender 
heart,  only  to  be  broken  off,  when  the  friend  becomes  again 
194 


SYMPATHY   AVD   APPBIOIATIOII 

At  Mnruit»  until  in  Um  «ul  'tht  ndgkbonn  idaj  Iimt h« 
iDuMag  to  hMMlf  in  th«  durk,  with  tbt  fln  bornt  ont  for 
wtnt  of  fatl.  and  tht  onndlo  ttill  anlit  npon  tho  taUt.'  Itui 
tht  mort  nUon  doptttmtnto  of  lift  tompt  hia  to  tntor  that 
ht  ni«7  nndontand  and  •jnapatMao.   H«  knows  how  it  most 
tMl  to  bo  oirtrwholmad  and  rtjidered  oaoIaM  hj  tho  my 
P—tP—  of  •  radden  opportunitj,  and  bo  nndentandi  tho 
baart  of  him  who  has  boon  mado  a  oowaid  from  his  mothot  s 
womb.    Ho  has  thought  of  tho  homolossness  of  many  groat 
psoplo  whoso  woalth  and  social  position  doprivo  thorn  of  somo 
mora  prsdons  gifts;  ho  has  loalised  how  ono-sidod  an  affair 
gntlsmanlinoss  looks  to  tho  outsidor  who  would  fadn  bo 
•Bd  bo  aoooptod  as  a  gontloman.    Bigotry  of  any  kind  is  an 
abomination  to  him,  yet  ho  has  boon  ablo  to  enter  into  tho 
lonl  of  Do  Chayla  as  weU  as  that  of  Pierre  S^ier.    Ho 
^'  •  shown  us  tho  hcU  of  human  oonsdenco  and  heart 
that  an  ignored  in  some  popuhur  ideas  of  the  iniauitous 
South  Sea  trader,  and  he  has  been  at  great  pains  to  point 
cot  the  many  and  perplexing  moral  dil&eulties  of  his 
ntuation.    The  intenriew  between  the  trader  Wiltshire  and 
the  missionaiy  Tarkton  in  The  Beach  of  FaluA  is  a  noUUe 
iiutanoe  of  fidr-minded  valuation  of  men  and  gentlemen. 
The  oold-blooded  conduct  of  the  wreckers  on  the  Shethnd 
Islands  he  has  traced  to  its  source,  not  in  wickedness  so 
mnoh  as  in  the  sense  of  isolation,  and  apathy  to  the  concerns 
of  othen,  which  is  characteristic  of  feeble  rac^s.    Even  /or 
cannibals  he  has  a  word  to  say,  when  they  are  judged,  u 
they  ought  to  be,  by  savage  and  not  by  civilised  standards. 
In  all  such  cases  as  these,  he  who  would  judge  fairly,  and 
therefore  truly,  must  remember  tho  surroundings  in  which 
the  man  is  placed,  and  the  standards  to  which  he  has  been 
educated.     'Not  the  nature,  but  the  congruity  of  men's 
deeds  and  oireumstancea  damn  and  save  them.' 
The  same  principles  apply  to  more  ordinary  and  familiar 

196 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

qaeetiona.  With  his  sense  of  the  diffloulfy  of  moral  pro- 
blems we  shall  deal  by-and-bj :  meanwhile  their  complexity 
demands  a  moment's  notice.  From  several  points  of  view 
this  fact  appealed  to  Stevenson.  It  tempted  his  cariosity  as 
a  puzzle,  and  his  sense  of  the  picturesque  as  a  vivid  piece  of 
moral  spectacle.  It  also  called  forth  his  sympathetic  insight 
into  the  evident  bewilderment  of  many  lives  around  him. 
Some  of  them  are  perplexed  by  the  fact  that  '  there  are 
many  kinds  of  good';  honour,  generosity,  truth,  gentleness, 
appearing  as  equally  imperative  aspects  of  duty,  and  confusing 
the  mind  with  their  rival  claims.  Others  are  so  overstrung 
by  the  excitement  of  critical  moments  that  they  have  lost 
all  sense  of  the  proportion  of  things.  Some  who  have 
formulated  general  principles  for  action,  but  never  related 
these  into  any  kind  of  a  system  of  conduct,  are  running  to 
and  fro  distracted  among  their  own  ideals.  Many  are  in- 
adequately equipped  in  respect  of  conscience,  having 
consciences  void  of  all  refinement  in  good  or  evil ;  or  being 
unable  to  keep  a  whole  conscience  except  by  winking  now 
and  then;  or  finding  conscience  perversely  scrupulous 
about  trifles,  whUe  it  perceives  no  evil  in  serious  faults 
until,  when  it  is  too  late,  it  turns  and  rends  the  sinner. 
The  plain  lesson  of  all  this  is  that  of  charitable  judgment, 
and  it  is  a  good  lesson,  though  not  without  its  danger. 
He  who  applies  it  to  his  own  morality  may  find  it  lead 
him  far  astray.  Accordingly  Stevenson  reminds  us  many 
times  that  '  it  is  the  business  of  this  life  to  make  excuses 
for  others,  but  none  for  ourselves.' 

His  appreciation  of  others  is  that  of  a  great  and  generous 
spirit.  He  is  well  aware  that  every  one  has  good  and  evil 
in  his  nature,  but  his  confident  belief  is  that  it  ia  the  part 
of  all  who  judge  to  dwell  rather  on  the  good  than  on  the 
evil.  Whatsoever  things  are  lovely  and  of  good  report,  he 
will  think  by  preference  on  these  things.  Accordingly  we 
19< 


SYMPATHY    AND    APPRECIATION 

ind  that  his  bitterest  invectives  are  reaerved  for  those  who 
have  been  harsh  judges  of  their  neighbours.  It  is  this 
character  that  he  satirises  in  A  Portrait,  where  the  slanderer 
speaks  in  the  guise  of  an  ape,  swinging  by  his  irreverent  tail 
all  over  the  most  holy  places  of  human  life. 

'  I  am  "  the  smiler  with  the  knife," 
The  battener  upon  garbage,  I — 
Dear  heaven,  with  such  a  rancid  life, 
Were  it  not  better  &r  to  die  ? ' 

He  hates  those  who 'have  an  eye  for  faults  and  failures, 
who  take  a  pleasure  to  find  and  publish  them,  and  who  " 
forget  the  overveiling  virtues  and  the  real  success.'     He 
condemns  the  satirist,  who  'has  learned  the  first  lesson, 
that  no  man  is  wholly  good ;  but  he  has  not  even  suspected 
that  there  is  another  equally  true,  to  wit,  that  no  man  is 
wholly  bad.  ...  He  does  not  want  light,  because  the  dark- 
ness is  more  pleasant.    He  does  not  wish  to  see  the  good, 
because  he  is  happier  without  it'    The  temptation  of  the 
satirist  is  to  be  amusing  at  the  expense  of  others,  but 
Fleeming  Jenkin  taught  Stevenson  that  Christ  would  not 
have  counselled  that.    Without  further  question  Stevenson 
accepted  the  lesson  and  broadened  it  into  the  sweeping 
statement  that 'There  is  no  more  sure  sign  of  a  shallow 
mind  than  the  habit  of  seeing  always  the  ludicrous  side  of 
things.'    In  one  who  had  at  his  command  such  powers  of 
wit,  and  such  a  literary  gift  for  its  expression,  this  senti- 
ment  involves  much  self-denial:  but  the  biographer  of  his 
Edinburgh  Days  has  told  us  that  he  seldom  spoke  unkindly 
of  any  one,  and  that  if  others  did  so  in  his  presence  he  at 
once  became  the  champion  of  those  attacked.    He  resents 
Thoreau's  saying  that  we  are  always  disappointed  in  our 
friends,  and  repUes  that  'We  are  ninety-nine  times  dis- 
appointed in   our  beggarly  selves  for  once  that  we  are 

197 


h 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 


ii 


^  i 


diMppoiuted  in  our  Mend.'  Of  his  own  early  essays  hs 
aaserti— unnecessarily  as  it  appears  to  some— that  he  had 
been  too  grudging  of  praise. 

Thus  Stevenson  systematically  turns  from  the  evil  to  the 
good  side  of  men  and  things,  except  where  the  purpose  of 
his  work  demands  another  course.    He  knows  well  that  all 
dealings   between  man  and  man  must  proceed  upon  the 
understanding  that  certain  differences  are  to  be  first  recog- 
nised and  then  ignored  in  favour  of  the  points  which  they 
have  in  common.    His  canon  for  the  study  of  great  periods 
of  literature  and  history  is, '  Be  sure  you  do  not  understand 
when  you  dislike  them;  ccudemnation  is  non-comprehen* 
sion.'    More  and  more  he  turns  from  the  business  of  the 
runner-down  to  that  of  the  crier-up.    The  former  has  the 
easier  thing  to  do,  but  a  strong  man  scorns  to  do  it,  and  'the 
Abstract  Bagman  will  grow  like  an  Admiral  at  heart,  not 
by  ungrateful  carping,  but  in  a  heat  of  admiration.'    Thii 
was  no  theoretical  principle  with  him,  but  a  real  part  of  him- 
self, most  intimate  and  living.    He  frankly  enjoyed  being 
appreciated,  and  he  paid  back  the  debt  most  lavishly  in  his 
appreciation   of  others.     His  principle  is  that  men  are 
generally  better  than  they  appear  to  be,  better  than  their 
manners,  or  the  words  they  utter,  or  even  the  deeds  they 
da    He  delights  in  competence  wherever  it  is  found,  and 
even  in  the  dark  pages  of  the  Matter  of  BallatUrae,  some  of 
the  strongest  and  most  congenial  work  is  their  portrayal  of 
sheer  ability.     He   believes  enthusiastically  in   man  in 
general,  and  many  individual  men  in  particular.    He  knows 
the  greatness  of  the  Mighty  Dead,  and  he  knows  the  worth 
and  goodness  of  the  living.    His  letters  to  his  parents  and  to 
his  (Jd  nurse,  his  thoughts  and  memories  of  absent  friends, 
and  his  dealings  with  the  people  immediately  about  him, 
form  an  extraordinary  series  of  studies  in  appreciation-.  His 
references  to  contemporary  and  rising  authors  are  not  only 
198 


STMPATHT    AND    APPRECIATION 

mtfked  bj  a  rue  generoiity,  but  a  poritive  delight  in  their 
good  work.  With  hia  pobliahera  it  is  the  aame— be  only 
'wishes  all  his  publishers  were  not  so  nice.'  He  nerer 
foils  to  notice  any  good  deed  or  to  acknowledge  any  touch 
of  kindness  that  has  come  bis  way.  In  the  emigrant  train 
he  is  grateful  to  a  station  lad  for  speaking  a  civil  word  to 
him;  at  Vailima  he  lingers  over  the  pleasure  which  it  gives 
him  when  the  black  boys  working  on  the  estate  value  his 
'Qood-momingl'  Wherever  any  one  about  him  is  trying, 
with  however  much  of  failure,  to  act  manfully  and  do  his 
duty,  Stevenson  is  ready  with  his  word  of  encouragement 
and  appreciatior ,  whether  it  be  a  Uttle  child  managing 
cattle,  or  a  native  king  fighting  for  his  kingdom. 

Among  the  many  instances  which  prove  this,  his  judg- 
ments of  professedly  religious  people  would  form  an 
interesting  study.  If  we  except  those  which  belong  to  the 
wnbittered  period  of  revolt,  we  shall  find  the  same  catho- 
licity and  the  same  power  of  seeing  essential  truth  rather 
than  eccentric  error,  good  intention  rather  than  indifferent 
performance.  Whether  it  were  Roman  priest,  or  Protestant 
missionary,  or  Plymouth  brother,  it  was  the  same.  Sheriff 
Hunter,  the  fearless  and  gentle  believer  of  the  old  style, 
has  a  soul  'like  an  ancient  violin,  so  subdued  to  harmony, 
responding  to  a  touch  in  music';  but  'the  two  young  lads, 
revivalists,'  are  not  censured. 

We  shall,  however,  refer  at  greater  length  only  to  the 
one  fact  of  his  relations  with  missions  and  missionaries  in 
the  South  Seas.  It  would  be  an  insult  to  the  reader's 
knowledge  of  pubUc  facts  to  cite  a  traveUer's  appreciation 
of  mission  work  as  anything  wonderful  or  specially  credit- 
able. Yet  from  a  man  like  Stevenson  we  expect  prejudice 
or  at  best  aloofness.  Foreign  Mission  interests  and  enthu- 
siasm are  still  too  much  within  an  inner  circle  of  our  British 
church-life.    They  are  expected  of  those  deeply  identified 

119 


•m 


\\x 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    8TBYBN80N 

witii  the  church,  but  toe  still  looked  upon  bj  only  too  many 
M  eoonaels  of  perfection  rather  than  cMential  parts  of 
Christianity;  while  thwe  are  yet  others  who  openly  eonfen 
to  a  prejudice  against  them.     Prfjudioed  StOTenson  was, 
according  to  his  own  showing:  'I  had  feared  to  meet  a 
missionary,  feared  to  find  the  narrowness  and  the  self-soffi. 
ciency  that  de&ce  their  publications,  that  too  often  disgrace 
their  behaviour.'    Whether  anything  that  he  had  actually 
seen  in  missionaries  had  been  such  as  to  justify  these  wordi 
may  be  doubted.    But  the  fiact  that  so  strong  a  prejudice 
was  there  renders  his  coadvot  all  the  more  striking,  as  we 
now  know  it.     His  bearing  towards  the  missionaries  wai 
such  as  to  win  them  to  him  in  a  quite  astonisling  mannet 
Claxton  translated  his  Bottle  Im^  into  Samoan;  Whitmee 
acted  as  his  interpreter;  Clarke  read  the  funeral  service  at 
his  grave.    Missionaries  consulted  and  trusted  him  con* 
coming  difficult  points  in  their  work.    Thqr  received  fnmi 
him  advice  in  which  they  recognised  as  fully  the  sympathy 
of  the  fellow-worker  as  the  shrewdness  of  the  skilled  critic 
of  men  and  things.    His  opinion  of  them  in  the  main  may 
be  judged  by  the  fact  that  it  u  to  missionaries  that  he 
has  paid  some  of  the  highest  of  his  many  appreciations  of 
noble  character  and  wo^     He  defends  them  from  the 
charge  of  meddling,  and  he  testifies  to  the  reality  and  value 
of  the  work  they  have  done  in  ChristianiBing  the  natives. 
In  the  Samoan  political  troubles  he  made  common  cause 
with  them,  consulted  them,  understood  them,  appreciated 
them,  until  whole-hearted  co-operation  ripened  into  mutual 
trust  and  love.  Even  his  adverse  criticisms  show  how  much 
he  was  impressed  with  the  reality  of  their  work :  had  he 
not  been  so,  his  judgments  r^rding  it  would  not  have  been 
ft',  painstaking  and  so  thoughtful.    He  knew  its  tempta- 
tions, its  difficulties,  and  its  discouragements;  the  thank- 
lessness  of  much  of  it,  and  the  demand  for  long  patience  in 
200 


8TMPATHT    AND    APPRECIATION 

it  all    He  naliMd  tlao  it*  tplendid   opportunitiet,  and 
iwogniMd  nngradgiiigly  its  miecess. 

Bdon  pMsing  on,  it  nay  be  worth  while  to  put  together 
one  or  two  of  his  estioMtes  of  missionaries,  for  they  are  very 
remarkahle  even  among  the  sayings  of  one  so  Uberal  in  praise 
•ad  so  oatspoken  in  appreciation  as  he.    *  Those  who  have 
a  taste  for  hearing  missions,  Protestant  or  Catholic,  decried, 
most  seek  their  pleasure  somewhere  else  than  in  my  pages. 
Whether  Catholic  or  Protestant,  with  all  their  gross  blots, 
with  all  their  deficiency  of  candour,  of   humour,  and  of 
common  sense,  the  missionaries  are  the  best  and  the  most 
wefal  whites  in  the  Pacific.'     'The  best  specimen  of  the 
Christian  hero  I  ever  met  was  one  of  [the]  native  mission- 
uies.'    Of  Ckrke  he  writes :  '  The  excellent  Clarke  up  here 
ahnost  all  day  yesterday,  a  man  I  esteem  and  like  to  the 
Mdesof  his  boots;  I  prefer  him  to  any  one  in  Samoa, and  to 
most  people  in  the  world ;  a  real  good  missionary,  with  the 
inestimable  advantage  of  having  grown  up  a  layman.    Pity 
they  can't  all  get  that ! '    He  calls  another  '  a  hero,  a  man 
who  took  me  fairly  by  storm,  for  the  most  attractive,  simple, 
have,  and  interesting  man  in  the  whole  Pacific'    The  late 
James  Chalmers  of  New  Guinea  he  refers  to  as  'a  man  I 
love/  and  asserts  that  he  would  hardly  change  with  any 
man  of  his  time,  'unless  perhaps  it  were  [Generall     ordon 
or  our  friend  Chalmers.  ...  You  can't  weary  n,         that . 
feUow;  he  is  as  big  as  a  house  and  far  bigger  ti...u  any 
church.'     It  would  be  easy,  if  space  permitted,  to  bring 
together  an  equaUy  enthusiastic  set  of   the   sayings  of 
missionaries  about  him. 

Altogether,  the  general  impression  left  on  the  mind  after 
rewiing  his  work  is  that  of  a  most  kindly  and  generous  spirit. 
No  doubt  there  are  passages  of  deep  hor/or  and  ugliness  on 
tte  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  hand  the  praise  is  some- 
"""  1  exaggerated  ur  "  it  almost  loses  its  sense  of  reality. 

Ml 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8TSTBKSON 


Tet  in  iMding  him  we  find  onnelvM  unong  an  oncon- 
moolj  rioh  assemUj  of  delightful  ihingi  end  adminU* 
people.  Oompetent  men  tie  thinking  end  acting  com- 
petently: blondeien  are  after  all  meaning  well.  Writen 
are  writing,  preachers  preaching,  labourers  labouring,  asd 
on  the  whole  the  work  is  done  honestly  and  not  in  vain. 
Behind  us  stand  the  glorious  dead,  around  us  are  the  noble 
living.  It  is  a  heartening  world,  and  one  well  worth  living 
in,  and  its  whole  atmosphere  braces  us  to  do  our  best, 
that  we  may  not  shame  so  gallant  a  company  of  oni 
fellow-mortals. 

We  have  been,  however,  as  yet  but  in  the  outer  court  of 
the  temple.  A  man  may  school  himself  to  just  and 
appreciative  criticism,  while  remaining  naturally  and  pe> 
sistently  apathetic.  How  about  the  inner  life  of  actual 
needs  and  desires  7  Of  this,  in  Stevenson's  case,  there  can 
be  no  question.  He  was  by  nature  and  by  habit  the  moet 
companionable  man  known  to  the  public  of  his  time.  'A 
man,'  in  his  opinion  'who  must  separate  himself  from  hit 
neighbours'  habits  in  order  to  be  happy,  is  in  much  the 
same  case  with  one  who  requires  to  take  opium  for  the 
same  purpose.'  For  himself,  he  frankly  admits  that  he 
loves  to  be  loved  and  hates  to  have  any  one  angry  with  him. 
His  power  of  winning  affection  was  phenomenal,  and  iU 
secret  lay  to  a  large  extent  in  his  felt  need  of  affection. 
One  firiend,  writing  when  ho  had  received  the  news  of  hii 
death,  says:  'So  great  was  his  power  of  winning  love  that, 
though  I  knew  him  for  less  than  a  week,  I  could  have  borne 
the  loss  of  many  a  more  intimate  friend  with  less  sorrow. 
One  of  the  strongest  impressions  left  on  the  mind  by  his 
biography  and  his  letters  is  that  the  landmarks  end  mile- 
stones of  his  life  were  the  successive  friendships  which  be 
formed.  Fleeming  Jenkin,  Sidney  Colvin,  and  others  who 
came  afterwards,  marked  the  critical  points  in  life  for 
203 


8TMPATHT    AND    APPBBCIATIOK 

Um,  and  sMh  added  some  oontribaMon  to  the  deTelopment 
ofhiiindiTidnalitj. 

He  Ttloes  the  most  casual  and  slight  acqaaintanoe  with 
s  fellow-moitaL    In  towns  he  is  delighted  with  the  pleasant 
ftoes  of  men  and  women  seen  in  passing.    In  the  conntiy, 
to  see  some  one  before  him  on  the  road,  is  enough  to  make 
him  quicken  his  steps.    In  unfrequented  districts '  a  meet- 
iog  is  an  affair  of  moment;  we  have  the  sight  far  off  of 
aome  one  coming  towards  us,  the  growing  definiteness  of 
the  person,  and  then  the  brief  passage  and  salutaUon,  and 
the  road  left  empty  before  us  for  perhaps  a  great  while  to 
come.    Such  encounters  have  a  wistful  interest  that  can 
hardly  be   understood    by  the   dweUer  in   places   more  / 
populous.'    So  he  goes  along,  finding  pleasure  in  •  waving  a   y 
handkerchief  to  people  he  shall  never  see  again,'  at  home  • 
with  aU  the  world  on  easy  terms.    For '  the  knowledge  that  / 
another  has  felt  as  we  have  felt,  and  seen  things,  even  if 
they  are  Uttle  things,  not  much  otherwise  than  we  have 
seen  them,  will  continue  to  the  end  to  be  one  of  life's 
choicest  pleasures.'    When  there  is  no  human  companion- 
8hip~80  great  is  his  need  of  company— he  will  create 
it    Imagination  comes  to  the  rescue,  and  the  fascinating 
Dick  Turpin  rides  down  the  empty  lane  to  meet  him.    He 
was  a  lover  of  animals:  to  him  a  stray  dog  was  'God's 
dog/  and  therefore  his  friend.   Even  inanimate  things  would 
serve  his  turn.    He  knew  the  exquisite  sympathy  that 
exists  between  the  engineer  and  his  machine.    Breakers  on 
•  reef,  the  great  company  of  the  mountains,  even  the  very 
road  itself,  became  at  need  his  companions,  and  in  their 
fellowship  he  was  well  attended. 

Yet  friendship  is  not  with  him  a  light  matter  worn  upon 
his  sleeve.  The  passing  acquaintance  is  pleasant,  but  there 
is  more  in  friendship  than  that  '  In  this  wc-ld  of  imper- 
fection we  gladly  welcome  even  partial  intimacies.     And 

SOS 


fi 


THl    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBNgOM 

if  w«  find  but  one  to  wliom  we  cui  epeek  oat  of  oar  hear 
freely,  with  whom  we  can  walk  in  lore  and  eimplicit; 
without  dianmnlation,  we  have  no  groand  of  qaarrel  witi 
the  world  or  Ood.'  That  deeper  lort  of  friendship  hi 
knows,  and  he  has  proclaimed  its  worth  : 

'For  Um  dauMt  Mradt  an  Um  MildMt  frimdi, 
And  the  yoimg  u*  jntt  oa  UUL' 

The  deeper  friendship  is  not  a  matter  of  how  mnch  one  cti 
get,  either  of  instmotion,  or  sympathy,  or  any  other  sort  ol 
mutaal  improvement  '  I  cannot,'  he  exclaims, '  count  that  i 
poor  dinner,  or  a  poor  book,  where  I  meet  with  those  I  love.' 
It  is  a  matter  of  faith  and  love.  '  When  we  have  fallen 
through  storey  after  storey  of  our  vanity  and  aspiration, 
and  sit  rueful  among  the  ruins,  then  it  is  that  we  begin  to 
measure  the  stature  of  our  friends ;  how  they  stand  between 
us  and  our  own  contempt,  bdieving  in  our  best;  how, 
linking  us  with  others,  and  still  spreading  wide  the  in- 
fluential circle,  they  weave  us  in  and  in  with  the  fabric  of 
contemporary  life.'  A  curious  proof  of  the  seriousness  with 
which  he  took  his  friendships  is  the  diffident  and  self- 
excusing  way  in  which  he  broke  the  news  to  them  from 
the  South  Seas,  that  he  would  not  return  at  the  expected 
time.  It  would  not  occur  to  many  voyagers  in  search  of 
health  to  dispute  their  right  to  another  year  of  sunshine. 
But  with  him  friendship  meant  that  he  was  not  his  own, 
and  he  had  to  borrow  his  year  from  those  he  loved. 

A  nature  so  rich  in  love  is  never  far  from  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven.  The  aged  John  has  told  us  that 
'  love  is  of  Ood ;  and  every  one  that  loveth  is  bom  of  God 
and  knoweth  God.'  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  what  tbe«e 
words  mean  if  it  be  not  that  in  all  pure  and  unselfish  love 
there  is  an  element  of  real  religion.  Now  and  then  we  find 
love  declaring  its  hidden  meaning  to  Stevenson  in  terms  of 
204 


BTMPATHT    AND    APPKIOIATIOH 

•  monthuwaaUjolMurftith.    Thw  •  to  love  i«  the  great 
•molet  wUeh  makee  the  world  •  guden;  end  hope,  whieh 
eomet  to  all.  ontirem  the  aceidente  of  life,  and  reaches 
with  tremnloua  hand  beyond  the  grare  and  death.    Ewy  to 
mj :  yea,  bat  aleo,  by  Ood'e  meroy ,  both  easy  and  grateful  to 
believe.'    Yet  it  waa  not  ao  much  on  the  theoreUoal  as  on 
the  practical  side  that  love  led  Stevenson  to  faith.     As 
hu  been  already  stated,  vision  is  with  him  the  signal  for 
trsrel,  and  the  quick  foot  goes  with  the  dear  and  far-seeing 
eye.   Thus  his  love  not  only  quickened  his  own  life  with  a 
glow  of  happiness,  and  drew  out  his  various  powers  to 
their  utmost  of  enjoyable  and  healthful  exercise ;  it  also  sent 
him  forth  among  men  in  helpfulness  and  service.    He  was 
BO  mere  paragon  of  glad  life,  whose  love  had  kindled  his 
ideals  and  kept  them  shining  brighUy  for  men  to  see  and 
enTy.    AU  that  he  has  is  for  the  sake  of  thoee  who  need  it 
like  Herakles  in  BaUnutum'a  Adventure,  he 

'  held  hia  life 
Oat  on  his  hand,  for  any  nun  to  take.' 

Thus  is  love  twice  blessed  in  bis  experience.  IntrinsicaUy 
and  for  its  own  dear  sake,  it  is  the  best  thing  in  all  the 
world.  But  in  its  uses  also  it  is  blessed.  We  run  to  those 
who  love  us  when  we  are  mortified  with  failure,  'not  to 
hear  ourselves  called  better,  but  to  be  better  men  in  point 
of  fcwf  'So  long  as  we  love  we  serve;  so  long  as  we  are 
loved  by  others,  I  would  almost  say  that  we  are  indis- 
penaable;  aud  no  man  is  useless  while  he  has  a  friend* 
•The  essence  of  love  is  kindness;  and  indeed  it  may  be 
bert defined  as  passionate  kindness;  kindness,  so  to  speak 
ran  mad  and  become  importunate  and  violent.' 

Stevenson's  love  for  his  fellows  is  never  shown  so  keen 
and  strong  as  in  those  cases  where  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  it  in  the  way  of  service  or  intellectual  return— 

205 


I  '. 


.  ■  i  j 


U 


■  ■:■: 

,  r 


a 


t 


^f 


THl    VAITH    OV    B.    L.   BTIYIHBON 

BOthing  but  moh  ntnn  of  gratitad*  and  afllMtion  u  onl 
loT«  ptliML  Hif  whoU  work  is  fnU  of  eompMdon  for  th 
nraltitiidt,  and  for  the  iudividiul  moii  and  women  wh 
oompoM  it.  Hit  heart  is  open  to  all  who  are  helpleH  ta 
misnable,  and  in  a  man's  mere  pitiableness  he  recogniM 
a  daim  npon  himself.  He  realises  how  the  baniahe 
Samoans  mnst  loathe  the  rongh  food  and  brackish  water  c 
the  ooral  reef  to  which  civilised  mlers  had  seiie  them ;  hi 
sonl  is  tOQohed  by  the  horrors  which  runaway  bltckboy 
mnst  suffer  at  night,  as  they  hide  in  the  homeless,  deril 
haunted  bush;  his  heart  bums  m  he  sees  the  sufferingio 
the  wounded  in  the  bospitaL  That  was  toward  tbecloM 
among  the  islanders  to  whom  he  paid  out  so  much  of  hi 
heart  Tet  for  them  he  had  so  strong  an  admiration 
that,  as  we  hare  already  said,  it  was  rather  justice  than  pit] 
whioh  Samoa  called  forth.  But  a  deep  compassion  goes  t( 
men  and  women  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  who  are  entanglM 
in  the  toils  of  the  inner  life  and  struggle.  The  hopdes 
bithfiilness  of  love  that  meets  with  no  response,  whetha 
it  be  in  Lord  Durrisdeer's  son  or  in  the  disfigured  wife  of  i 
heartless  artisan  in  the  Portobello  train;  the  homelessnen 
of  those  who  have  by  their  own  fault  alienated  friendship; 
the  hapless  plight  of  all  'sinful  men  walking  before  Uu 
Lord  among  the  sins  and  dangers  of  this  life ' — all  these 
fill  his  heart  with  tears.  Still  more  does  he  feel,  and  mike 
his  readers  feel,  the  pity  of  it,  when  a  good  man  hu 
degenerated  from  his  former  character,  and  we  remembei 
the  brare  fight  he  once  made  against  the  temptations  he  no 
longer  resists — '  Was  not  this  a  thing  at  once  to  rage  and  to 
be  humbled  at  ?  ...  I  was  overborne  with  a  pity  simoit 
approaching  the  passionate,  not  for  my  master  alone,  hot 
for  the  sons  of  man.' 

Li  these,  and  countless  other  examples  of  his  compassvm 
for  individual  fellow-mortals  the  reader  is  startled  by  the 
SOS 


STMPATHT    AND    APPRIOIATION 

Mw»eyothk  uidMitattdiBg— 1m  bH  imnginwl  m  mmUj 
lovitmwtfMltolMiBmiehftOMt.    And  the  iMi  quote- 
tioB  itmincU  iu  of  tho  hot  that  hit  tymp$ihj  wm.boI  only 
dmwn  forth  by  known  euea  of  indiTidnal  raffering,  whoM 
pietarMqiiMMM  might  more  the  wtistio  num  to  amotion. 
iB  imagination  ha  want  out  among  tha  painftd  fhota  of  the 
woild,  with  tha  lama  graat-haartad  oompaadon.  At  tha  time 
of  the  Frrnoo-Prnaeiatt  war,  ha  waa  tiaTalUng  among  the 
Wertera  Iilee,  and  ha  talla  na  how  ha  coold  kmr  the  ahota 
bed  and  feel  the  pang  of  the  buUeta  striking  his  bnast   •  It 
WM  somatimea  eo  diatiaasing.  so  instant,  that  I  lay  in  tha 
bMthar  on  tha  top  of  the  island,  with  my  faoe  hid,  kicking 
ajr  heels  for  agony.'    •  In  that  year/  he  writea  alaawhere, 
'flsanon  were  roaring  for  days  together  on  French  battle-' 
«ddi,  and  I  would  sit  in  my  isle  (I  call  it  mine  after  the 
m  of  lovers)  and  think  npon  tha  war,  and  the  pain  of 
nn'i  wounds,  and  tha  weariness  of  their  marching.    And 
I  would  think,  too,  of  that  other  war  which  is  as  old  aa 
Bsakind,  and  is  indeed  the  life  of  man;  the  unsparing 
wir,the  grinding  slavery  of  oompetiUon ;  the  toil  of  seventy 
jtm,  dear-bought  bread,  precarious  honour,  the  perils  and 
pitWls,  and  the  poor  rewards.    It  was  a  long  look  forward ; 
the  future  summoned  me  as  with  trumpet-calls,  it  warned 
me  back  as  with  a  voice  of  weeping  and  beseeching ;  and  I 
thrilled  and  trembled  on  the  brink  of  life,  like  a  childish 
bather  on  the  beach.' 

Sympathy,  such  as  he  so  eloquently  expressed  both  in 
theory  and  in  practice,  is  in  itself  a  great  moral  force. 
Apert  from  its  definite  outgoings  in  acts  of  helpfulness,  if 
it  pervade  the  spirit  of  a  man  it  will  instinctively  solve 
"any  problems  and  lead  to  just  and  useful  dedsioDs.  Yet 
Jt  is  possible  to  substitute  sympathy  for  kindness,  and  to 
Wng  to  the  thirsty  Ups  of  men  the  empty  cup  of  sentiment 
"»tead  of  the  water  of  Ufa    Stevenson  knew  the  tempta- 

207 


lit'. 


jl 


THl    FAITH    OV    B.    L.   ■TITMSOM 

tioB  wad  rtpMltdlj  dttoribtd  it.  \m%  it  atm  wu  hit  o« 
dugtr.  Th«t  tMdanMM  of  MBtinrat  wUeh  ihnnk  froi 
giving  p«in  to  uits,  which  led  him  to  giTO  np  •▼en  the  ipoi 
of  flehiag,  end  which  fooad  vent  in  fleroe  enger  egeinat  u 
one  who  ill-treeted  en  eaiael,  gtumnteed  thet  STrnpeth 
•honU  find  e  pfeetioel  outlet  'Kind  deeds  and  wordi 
he  ceye— 'thet'e  Uie  tme  bine  of  j^y ;  to  hope  the  bci 
end  do  the  beet,  end  speak  the  best'  The  code  by  wbic 
he  gaided  his  whole  life,  and  arranged  its  rehtions  to  Ukm 
most  intimately  ommeeted  with  him,  had  kindness  u  on 
of  its  first  prindplss.  His  relatiras  to  the  members  of  hi 
family,  boUi  before  and  after  marriage,  are  fall  of  kindaes 
which  mellows  and  increasss  as  years  advance.  ProfeiH 
Colvin  has  borne  testimony  to '  tlM  charm  of  his  talk,  whid 
was  irresistibly  sympathetic  and  inspiring';  and,kQowm 
him  with  an  intimacy  which  very  few  were  privileged  t 
e^joy,  he  tella  ns  that  his  was  'one  of  the  bravest  tm 
tendereet  of  hnman  hearts.'  He  reftised  to  accept  th 
ordinary  trade  conceptions  of  his  relations  to  workmen  b 
employed,  or  the  ordinary  domeetic  standaidt  o  the  trsai 
ment  of  the  eervanta  of  hie  household.  It  has  beei 
supposed  that  the  feudal  relations  which  existed  betweei 
him  and  his  dependente  in  Vailima  are  traceable  wholly  t 
bis  love  for  tiie  pictureeque  and  striking.  We  have  alretd; 
admitted  that  this  element  was  present  in  much  of  vhi 
he  did,  but  it  is  difficult  to  see  why  we  should  hesitate  ti 
admit  the  more  direct  and  simple  motive.  He  treated  U 
people  kindly  because  he  liked  to  be  kind.  It  was  im 
possible  for  him  ever  to  regard  the  living  persons  aboa 
him  in  any  other  light  than  as  human  beings,  or  to  scboo 
himself  into  any  other  than  the  natural  human  attitad 
toward  them. 

Nor  did  his  kindness  stop  short  in  attitude  and  affect 
it  passed  over  into  deeds  such  as  are  prompted  only  by  ^ 
208 


■THPATBT    AHD    APPRIOIATIOM 
■oil  eoapltto  uiMUkhMM  uid  Um  huoio  lor*  of  mu. 
TlM  ml  ftlM  of  ft  nan's  llf..  .nd  tbo  >MMn  why  ht 
Aoold  eliftg  to  it,  i.  thftt '  !»•,  M  ft  liriag  „„,  h„  ^  t^ 
Wlp.  MBM  to  loTt.'    Tho  tMt  qoMtion  for  ft  Uf«  ift  <  whfti 
iUkmc*  bftft  it  iDftdft  to  thift  world  ftiid  oor  ooootiy  ftod 
OMfkniilyftiidoBrfriftiid*.  thfttwehftTtUrftd.    TIm  nuui 
who  hfts  011I7  been  piou  end  not  uaefnl  wiU  stend  with  n 
long  fftoe  on  thet  groftt  day  when  Christ  pnts  to  him  his 
qvsstions.'    Thns  the  needs  of  othen  end  their  pitinble 
iitutions  were  for  him  not  merely  s  virid  specteele  bat  e 
ckmorous  snd  esecting  consdenee.   His  enthnsiftsm  kindles 
to  ereiy  pieoe  of  reel  snd  conscientioas  work  thet  hu  been 
(tea.  for  others.    De«>ribing  the  Norah  Cfmna'$  ilght  with 
the  storm,  he  sftys:  'Ood  Wees  eyery  men  that  swung  s 
iMllet  on  thftt  tiny  tnd  strong  hull  I    It  wts  not  for  wages 
only  thftt  he  laboured,  but  to  save  men's  lives.'    Two  of  the 
pMtest  poems  which  he  wrote,  distinguished  from  the  rest 
hj  their  stotely  and  solemn  loftiness,  are  those  in  which  he 
commemorates  the  lighthouse-building  of  his  fathers  and 
clsjiM  to  be  himself  a  lighthouse-builder  of  the  spirit : 

'  8tj  not  of  m*  th«t  wuklj  I  deoliaed 

Tju  Uboon  of  mj  drat,  ud  fl«d  tht  m, 

Tho  towoM  wo  foondod  and  tho  Umpo  wo  lit, 

To  pl»7  at  homo  with  papor  liko  a  child.' 

"St."*  *''^  ^^^  0  *»*»>•-'»  *>»•"  f»y  cwwn 
Whother  on  high  tho  air  bo  pun,  thoy  thino 
Along  tho  yoUowing  ranoot,  and  all  night 
Among  tho  unnomborod  atan  of  Ood  thoy  ohino  j 
Or  whothor  foga  arioo  and  far  and  wido 
Tho  tow  ooa-loTol  drown-oach  finds  a  tongue. 
And  aU  ai^t  long  tho  tolling  boll  roM>nada  • 
&>  ohino,  w  toU,  tiU  night  bo  oreipast, 
Till  tho  ttan  Taniab,  till  tho  lun  rotom, 
And  in  tho  haron  ridoo  tho  fioot  oooare. 

■  • 

Thu  thoo  hast  dooo,  and  I— can  I  bo  baao? 
I  moot  arioo,  0  fkthor,  and  to  port 
Somo  lost,  complaining  seaman  pUot  home.' 

O  209 


( 


III 


ll 


j 


i     ^ 


•!l! 


lit'     « 
If!     'I 

llji  ^ 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

The  ideal  of  service  to  man,  which  these  Terses  express 
so  well,  WAS  the  role  of  his  life.    In  little  things,  where 
men  occupied  with  great  service  axe  often  selfish,  he  carried 
it  out  as  conscientiously  as  in  great  things,  and  there  is 
nothing  which  better  prores  the  sincerity  of  his  altruism. 
His  devotion  to  children  was  unwearied.    Whether  it  was 
'taking  charge  of  a  kid'  to  let  its  mother  sleq>  on  the 
emigrant  train,  or  nursing  a  sick  one,  or  racking  his  brains 
to  find  something  for  a  letter  that  would  interest  a  little 
boy,  or  patiently  teaching  any  children  who  happened  to  be 
in  his  neighbourhood,  it  is  the  same  delight  in  serviceable- 
ness  that  we  find.     In  all  places  he  seems  to  have  been 
drawn  into  some  local  tussle  or  other,  and  impelled  to 
champion  the  cause  of  the  weak  and  wronged.     He  was 
only  restrained  by  the  utmost  pressure  from  going  at  the 
risk  of  his  life  to    occupy   an   Irish   farm  where   the 
occupant  had  been  murdered.     In  California  it  was  the 
sam&    In  the  Samoan  troubles  he  spent  his  last  years  in 
the  defence  of  the  natives  against  the  unsympathetic  and 
blundering  government  of  Europeans.    He  wrote  incessantly 
on  their  behalf— letters,  articles,  and  a  book  which  coat 
him  infinite  labour.    He  fought  for  them  in  meetings  to 
which  he  went  through  storm  and  rain  while  sick  with  colic 
or  in  the  intervals  of  hemorrhage.    He  did  this  at  the  risk 
of  trial,  prison,  and  banishment    He  had  to  quarrel  with 
all  the  officials  on  the  island,  and  was  attacked  by  a  'pretty 
scurrilous'  article  in  the  local  newspaper  week  by  week. 
And  all  this  was  service  rendered  in  a  department  alien  to 
his  tastes.    Politics  was  but  an  interruption  to  literature 
with  Stevenson,  and  it  is  hardly  possible  to  exaggerate  the 
sacrifice  of  his  natural  inclinations  which  such  politics  in- 
volved.    It  is  no  wonder  that  the  natives  loved  bim, 
accepted  him  as  a  chief  among  them,  and  built  'the  load 
of  gratitude '  to  hu  house.    For  a  man  of  his  temperament 
210 


SYMPATHY    AND    APPRECIATION 

and  ia  hi«  health  to  do  so  much  from  pure  love  of  helplew 
and  half  savage  fellow  men  is  surely  a  very  honouwble 
record  on  the  roll  of  heroic  self-.>«,  rific.  and  senrice. 

All  thia  must  be  considerr  i  in  the  light  of  the  fact  that 
no  one  beheved  less  in  self-  icrmce  for  if  own  sake  than 
he  His  Ideal  was  the  fulfiii.^..  nvt  the.  denying,  of  the 
instmctive  desires  of  human  nature.  Asceticism  had  no 
attracfaons  for  him.  except  those  which  love  and  service 
lent  It.    It  IS  peculiarly  significant  that  his  two  finest 

T""  f^-'^'"'^'^  ^'^  ''°""»  °f  "»«^«  !''«  «  the  South 
Seas  7%e  Fea^t  of  Famiu  and  Tht  Botth  Imp  are  as  great 
moraUy  as  they  are  in  point  of  literary  merit  The  latter 
nsM  to  a  simple  eloquence  in  the  words  of  Kokua.  the  wife 

She  had  doomed  her  soul  to  eternal  torment  that  she 
might  rescue  her  husband  from  a  like  fate:  'But  now  at 
least  I  take  my  soul  in  both  the  hands  of  my  affection. 
Now!  say  farewell  to  the  white  steps  of  heaven  and  the 
waiting  faces  of  my  friends.  A  love  for  a  love,  and  let  mine 
be  equalled  with  Keawe's.  A  soul  for  a  soul,  and  be  it 
mme  to  perish.' 

Of  course  the  Samoan  period  was  very  picturesque  and 
romantK,.    '  Tusitala.'  ^  in  his  various  capacities  of  patriarch 
emigod.  missionary,  and  bard,  is  a  charmingly  theatrical 

llTL  ^  '"  '^'  "*^  '^  '"«  ^^  y^'  «er  "ave 
touched  the  real   truth  of   the   situation.     No  kind  of 

cnticism  is  more  unworthy  than  that  which  selects  some 

tnkmg  but  insignificant  detail,  and  explains  the  whole  of 

a  mans  conduct  in  its  terms:  it  is  the  cheapest  way  of 

•i^paragmg  obviously  noble  character.    In  Stevenson's  case 

one  who  has  rendered  such  self-sacrificing  and  effective' 

mice  may  well  be  permitted  to  do  it  in  what  manner  he '' 

prefers.    The  essential  truth  of  such  actions  lies  simply  in 

'  T«.it.U  WM  the  Mm.  given  to  8f  renmm  by  th.  nattve.  in  8«,o.. 


:!f 


n 


II  •  ■ 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

his  love  of  imii  ;  and  the  thing  moat  obvious  about  them  is 

their  likeness  to  the  character  of  Jesus  Christ,  whose  spirit 

breathes  through  them  alL    That  Stevenson,  in  such  conduct, 

sought  to  follow  in  His  footsteps,  we  are  not  left  in  doubt. 

'The  truth  of  his  (Christ's)  teaching  would  seem  to  be  this: 

in  our  own  person  and  fortune,  we  should  be  ready  to  accept 

and  pardon  all;  it  is  mir  cheek  we  are  to  turn,  owr  coat 

that  we  are  to  give  away  to  the  man  who  has  taken  our 

cloak.     But  when  another's  face  is  buffeted,  perhaps  a 

little  of  the  lion  will  become  us  best.     That  we  are  to 

suffer  others  to  be  injured,  and  stand  by,  is  not  conceivable 

and  surely  not  desirable.'    In  acting  as  he  did,  Stevenson 

was  but  trying  to  obey  his  own  favourite  verses  in  Isaiah: 

'  Is  not  this  the  fast  that  I  have  chosen  ?  to  loose  the  bands 

of  wickedness,  to  undo  the  heavy  burdens,  and  to  let  the 

oppressed  go  free,  and  that  ye  break  every  yoke  ?    Is  it  not 

to  deal  thy  bread  to  the  hungry,  and  that  thou  bring  the 

poor  that  are  cast  out  to  thy  house  ?  when  thou  seest  the 

naked,  that  thou  cover  him ;  and  that  thou  hide  not  thyself 

from  thine  own  flesh  ? '    In  Tusitala,  as  in  any  other  man, 

self-sacrifice  for  others  is  a  Christ-like  thing.    To  believe 

in  life  and  to  rejoice  in  it,  yet  to  be  always  ready  to  lay  it 

down  that  we  may  save  others  by  bearing  the  burden  of 

their  sufferings  with  them  and  for  them — surely  that  is 

faith  in  an  intimately  Christian  sense.    Such  faith  is  worth 

more  to  God  and  to  the  world  than  many  abstract  beliefs. 

Browning's  Herakles  again  comes  back  to  memory  as  we 

think  of  the  Samoan  years : 

'Gkdnesa  be  with  thee,  Helper  of  our  world  1 
I  think  this  is  the  aathentio  lign  and  seal 
Of  Godihip,  that  it  aver  waxes  glad, 
And  josm  glad,  until  {^adnaia  blossoms,  bursts 
Into  a  rage  to  suffer  for  mankind.' 


212 


MANLINESS    AND    HEALTH 


CHAPTER    XII 


MANLINESS    AND    HEALTH 

It  was  natural  to  look  for  the  resultant  message  of  Steyen- 
son's  vision  and  travel  first  as  it  concerned  those  among 
whom  he  walked  and  whose  lives  he  saw.  We  turn  now  to 
the  reaction  of  these  faculties  upon  himself,  as  they  deter- 
mined the  management  of  his  own  life  and  his  conception 
of  what  a  man's  own  life  ought  to  be.  Had  he  been  asked 
to  state  in  two  words  his  ideal  for  life  and  character,  it  mav 
be  conjectured  that  the  definition  would  not  have  been  very 
different  from  the  title  of  the  present  chapter. 

Manliness  for  him  meant  f?rst  of  aU  strength.    •  Quit  you 
like  men,  be  strong.'  wat  nand  he  never  failed  to  hear 

and  answer,  preferring  al.  ,      ,n  himself  and  others  what 
he  caUed  'the  manly  virtues.'    With  weakness  accepted 
and  offered  as  an  excuse  for  failure,  he  had  little  sympathy 
•Those  who  go  to  the  devil  in  youth,  with  anything  like  a 
fair  chance,  were  probably  Kttle  worth  saving  from  the 
first;  they  must  have  been  feeble  fellows-creatures  made 
of  putty  and  packthread.  Tvithout  steel  or  fire,  anger  or 
true  joyfulness,  in  their  composition;  we  may  sympathise 
with  their  parents,  but  there  is  not  much  cause  to  go  into 
mourning  for  thems^l    s;  for.  to  be  quite  honest,  the  weak 
brother  is  the  worst  of  mankind.'    For  himself,  strenuous- 
ness  was  ever  a  welcome  demand  upon  Ufe.    It  was  with 
no  suspicion  of  complaint,  but  rather  with  a  sort  of  not 
annatural  boastfulness,  that  he  wrote  of  himself  as  'facing 

SIS 


ii 


IM 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8TBVBM80N 

M  stoutly  as  I  cau  a  hard,  combative  existence,  full  of 
doubt,  difficulties,  defeats,  disappointments,  and  dangers.' 
He  delights  in  hard  tasks,  for  the  very  hardness  of  them. 
He  often  presents  life  to  himself  and  others  in  its  most 
difficult  aspects,  that  he  may  tempt  us  all  to  heroism.  He 
does  not  count  that  life  a  high  calling  whose  main  part  is 
pleasure,  but  that  which  confronts  many  uncongenial  tasks 
and  dangerous  adventures. 

In  one  whose  bodily  health  was  so  weak  and  precarious 
as  his,  this  is  perhaps  not  surprising,  for  it  is  usual  for  the 
weak  to  realise  the  value  of  strength  and  covet  it  as  the 
best  of  gifts.  Tet  it  is  none  the  less  heroic,  when  we  think 
how  much  effort  and  pain  it  must  often  have  cost  him 
to  carry  it  out  in  practice.  And  he  is  entirely  free  from 
the  harshness  that  sometimes  characterises  those  who  live 
strenuously  against  great  odds.  True  manhood  is  not  only 
strong— it  is  strong  graciously,  delicately,  and  sanely.  The 
Greek  element  in  life  must  be  added  to  the  Hebrew,  the 
lighter  facts  must  balance  the  darker  and  more  sombre. 
This  kind  of  manhood,  with  its  all-round  balance  and 
harmony,  Stevenson  achieved.  As  he  conceived  of  it,  normal 
human  life  was  something  clean  and  healthy  as  well  as  robust, 
lived  in  the  open  air,  freshened  by  a  breeze;  and  this  frank 
and  natural  ideal  dominated  all  departments  of  his  thought. 
It  gave  their  tone  to  his  moral  and  spiritual  judgments, 
and  it  culminated  in  that  Gospel  of  Happiness  which  is 
at  once  his  highest  and  his  most  characteristic  message. 

In  all  true  strength  there  is  the  consciousness  of  another 
and  greater  Power  in  the  universe  before  which  man's 
strength  is  but  weaLaess.  This  is  but  one  instance  of  the 
universal  truth  that  in  order  to  really  know  any  part  of  the 
world  a  man  must  take  into  his  reckoning  that  which  is 
beyond  the  world.  So  incomplete  is  this  life  of  ours,  so 
literally  a  broken  arc,  that  none  who  confine  their  attention 
SU 


MANLINBBS    AND    HEALTH 

to  what  they  see  upon  the  earth  can  by  any  poaaibility 
nndentand  even  that  Not  for  beauty  only,  nor  for  hope, 
mnrt  we  look  beyond  the  world,  but  for  tmth  alwv— for 
anything  but  a  mistaken  conception  of  the  world  itself.  This 
ii  especially  true  in  the  matter  of  strength.  He  who  thinks 
proudly  of  his  human  strength,  who  exults  in  that  and  is 
tttisfied,  has,  like  Samson  of  old.  let  his  strength  lead  him 
into  blindness.  Prom  him  the  world  need  look  for  neither 
permanent  heartiness  nor  truly  valuable  service. 

Accordingly  we  find  that  there  is  an  element  of  fatalism, 
in  one  form  or  another,  in  all  really  great  thinkers,  arid 
Stevenson  is  no  exception.    Sometimes,  as  in  OlaUa,  this 
appears  in  a  sense  of  the  dread  physical  forces  of  the  world, 
whose  play  is  seen  in  natural  law  in  general,  and  in 
heredity  in  particular.    We  have  already  discussed  this  in 
connection  with  the  double  aspect  of  Nature— 'the  beauty 
and  the  terror  of  the  world.'    In  Olalla  the  woman  is  for 
the  man  who  loves  her  'the  link  that  bound  me  in  with 
dead  things  on  one  hand,  and  with  our  pure  and  pitying 
God  upon  the  other:  a  thing  brutal  and  divine, and  akin 
at  once  to  the  innocence  and  to  the  unbridled  forces  of  the 
earth.'    It  is  dangerous  for  a  fatalist  to  have  so  strong  an 
im^ination  as  Stevenson's,  and  OlaUa  is  a  standing  tribute 
to  a  faith  which  could  look  with  steady  and  undaunted  eye 
upon  the  Sphinx-like  mystery  of  the  world.    Seen  vaguely, 
the  great  powers  of  the  universe  are  only  awe-inspiring  and 
sublime :  seen  in  detail,  they  are  often  too  terrible  for  any  but 
the  most  indissuadable  faith.    A  somewhat  different  aspect 
of  destiny  is  presented  in  those  curious  fragments  where 
the  characters  of  his  fiction  come  out  from  th«ar  places  and 
discuss  the  story,  and  the  purpose  of  their  author.    Thus,  in 
the  first  fable.  John  Silver  and  Captain  SmoUett,  two  of  the 
puppets  from  'r.,ea»ure  Island,  "-onverse.     The  miscreant 
saver  is  confident  that  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  an  author, 

816 


^ 


i 


I 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8TBVBN80N 

he  himielf  is  his  favourite  character ;  while  the  Captain  ii 
equally  certain  that  the  author  ii  on  the  aide  of  good,  and  he 
needs  to  know  nothing  more.  It  is  a  cunning  device,  and 
extraordinarily  efTective  as  a  commentary  upon  some  of  the 
commou  arguments  about  Oalvinism,  for  and  against.  In 
other  passages  the  treatment  of  the  subject  is  more  solenui 
and  the  teaching  plain  and  weighty.  Bebellion  against 
the  established  order  of  the  universe  is  exhibited  in  all 
its  futile  irrationality  on  the  one  hand;  Ood's  slow  but 
irresistible  designs  are  manifest  on  the  other.  "The 
world,  the  universe,  turns  on  vast  hinges,  proceeds  on  a 
huge  plan ;  you,  and  we,  and — and  all,  I  potently  believe 
it — ^used  for  good ;  but  we  are  all — and  this  I  know— as  the 
dust  of  the  balances.  The  loss  or  the  salvation  of  the 
IMttiik  was  weighed,  and  was  decided,  in  the  hour  of  birth 
of  the  universe.' 


I 


'  The  chUd,  the  seed,  the  grain  of  com, 
The  Mom  on  the  hill, 
Baeh  for  some  sepante  end  ia  bom 
In  seaion  fit,  and  itill 

Bach  mnit  in  itiength  ariie  to  work  the  slmighty  will. 
.....  . 

So  from  the  sally  each  oheys 

The  nnseen  alm^hty  nod ; 

So  till  the  ending  all  their  ways 

Blindfolded  loth  hare  trod ; 

Nor  knew  their  taek  at  all,  but  were  the  took  of  Ood.' 

Fatalism,  taken  as  a  doom,  is  the  death  of  eneigy  and 
hope  alike,  and  one  of  the  strongest  entrenchments  of  sin 
against  goodness.  In  the  persons  of  those  characters  in  his 
stories  whom  Stevenson  has  marked  out  for  evil,  we  see 
this  repeatedly.  Markheim,  the  unwilling  criminal,  protests 
that  ever  since  his  birth  the  giants  of  circumstance  have 
dragged  him  about  by  the  wrists.  Mr.  Archer,  in  Tht  Ortat 
North  Road,  sets  the  pieces  of  a  broken  rush  to  float  upon  a 
216 


MANLINESS    AND    HEALTH 

itnuD,  and  accepts  the  path  of  evil  beoauie  two  out  of  the 
three  go  down  a  certain  channel*  In  each  oaaes  the  fgents 
have  peiraaded  themselyes  that  nothing  they  may  do  at  the 
prompting  of  reason  or  conscience  is  of  any  avail— it  is 
written  otherwise.  No  theory  of  fa**}  could  be  mote  con- 
renient  and  consoling  for  the  sinner,  whose  plea  is  that  he 
cannot  help  his  natnre  and  most  be  excosed  for  gratifying  it 
Meredith  has  spoken  of  this  kind  of  fatalism  as  'regarding 
the  Spirit  of  Life  as  a  remote  exteme,  who  plays  the  human 
igtaes,  to  bring  about  this  or  that  issue.'  With  that  external 
riew  of  destiny  he  has  contrasted  another— '  beside  us, 
within  us,  our  breath,  if  we  will ;  marking  on  us  where  at 
each  step  we  sink  to  the  animal,  mount  to  the  divina' 

The  distinction  between  the  outer  and  the  inner  view 
of  destiny  is,  as  regards  its  practical  effects,  one  of  the 
most  important  points  in  ethical  controversy.    It  was  the 
Istter  aspect  that  braced  the  life  of  Stevenson.    Destiny 
was  constantly  present  to  his  imagination,  yet  its  effect  was 
always  quickening  and  tonic     The  man's  mind  and  will 
spnng  to  the  great  alliance  with  the  mind  and  will  of  the 
universe,  and  wrought  out  actions  and  character  as  in  a 
rentable  sense  inspired  and  chosen  of  heaven.    No  soul 
is  ever  great  without  the   sense   of  this  alliance.     To 
explain  even  the  most  commonplace  experience  wholly 
in  terms  of  one  poor  little  human  life,  is  to  show  that 
one  has  never  realised  the  meaning  of  life  at  all.    There 
is  always   the   mrd,  the  unexplained    and    inexplicable 
element  beyond  all  that    The  recognition  of  this  is  the 
fint  requisite  of  true  manliness,  and  a  belief  in  predestina- 
tion of  some  sort  is  the  necessary  basis  for  any  healthy 
view  of  Ufe.    Thus  does  the  thought  of  destiny  perform  at 

'  Tet  it  b  lignifieant  that  he  doe*  not  launch  them  eveLly,  declaring 
Itat  'no  man  can  pat  complete  reliance  in  blind  fate ;  he  mnat  still  cm 
at  dice,* 

217 


If   li 


I' 


«:! 


!  i> 


I 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.   L.   BTIYINBON 

•11  tUDM  a  doable  fonotion  in  the  wotld :  the  bed  it  oomiai 
to  bedneM,  slackening  all  their  powers  of  mistance,  u 
thrusting  them  erer  deeper  into  the  evil  of  their  choic 
the  good  it  braces  for  action,  until,  claiming  it  for  th« 
own,  they  are  competent  to  fisoe  and  conquer  anything  tii 
Ufe  may  set  before  them.  The  latter  was  Sterenson's  conn 
summed  up  with  even  more  than  his  usual  appoeitenew  J 
the  phrase,  'to  waylay  destiny  and  bid  him  stand  an 
deliver.' 

The  result  in  character  wa«  one  of  the  most  brilliu 

records  of  human  courage  which  are  to  be  found  anywhei 

in  the  biographies  of  British  men.     Courage  is  not  one  ( 

^  the  highest  or  most  delicate  virtues.   It  is  closely  connecte 

'    with  the  physical  life,  and  even  moral  and  intellectual  in 

ing  has  its  roots  among  the  nerves  of  a  man.    Tet  even  » 

it  is,  in  Stevenson's  phrase,  '  the  footstool  of  the  virtue 

/  upon  which  they  stand,' and  therefoie  it  is  'the  princijn 

's,  virtue,  for  all  the  others  presuppose  it,'  so  that  'no  man  i 

I   of  any  use  until  he  has  dared  everything.'    It  is  a  noU 

worthy  fact  that  in  almost  every  one  of  his  recorded  prayei 

,  there  is  a  petition  for  courage,  for  it  will  generally  be  fotmi 

that  a  man's  most  distinguishing  characteristic  is  that  fo 

which  he  has  oftenest  prayed,    ^'hat  the  circumstances  o 

his  life  demanded  an  unusual  fortitude  will  be  denied  b] 

none  who  have  any  knowledge  of  the  facts.    In  Vailima  tin 

demand  became  excessive.     Vailima  letters,  from  this  poin 

of  view,  records  a  continuous  succession  of  troubles.   TIm 

incessant  worries  with  the  native  servants — who  seem  alwayi 

to  be  reverting  to  savage  madness,  or  breaking  down  witl 

iltoess,  or  relapsing  into  moral  weakness  and  failure— wen 

of  thMQselves  enough  to  discourage   any  ordinary  man 

They  were  met  with  a  constant  c<nnpassion,  an  unfailing 

effort  to  pleaet  and  help.    We  have  already  written  of  tb* 

part  he  played  is  the  political  situation  and  the  diflF.cultia 

218 


;i 


MANLINB88    AND    HEALTH 

udtf  which  he  did  hi*  litoruy  work.    The  oounge  die- 

pbTwl  in  theee  ie  eclipeed  only  by  the  atUl  more  splendid 

ewnge  with  which  he  met  his  many  illneeaea.    We  have  seen 

bov,  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Graham  Balfoor.  '  his  sofferings 

did  not  dnll  the  kindliness  and  sympathy  which  largely 

fonned  the  fascination  of  his  character.'    Tet  the  inner  vic- 

toiyover  trunble  wu  even  more  brilliant  As  we  read  of  the 

iaecsaant  returns  of  prostrtting  illness  and  blindness;  pain 

in  the  head,  the  back,  the  limbs ;  wakefulness,  and   its 

NSM  of  ruin ;  fever,  racking  cough  and  bleeding  lungs ;  we 

eaa  but  thank  Ood  for  a  creature  able  to  meet  them  all  as 

he  did.    Dr.  Bobertson  NicoU  has  somewhere  said  very 

msmorably  that  to  understand  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  one 

mud  have  put  up  a  little  blood.    Yet  even  those  who  cannot 

thoB  know  to  its  depth  the  meaning  of  that  splendid 

connge,  may  well  perceive  that  here  there  is  the  record  of 

no  ordinary  heroism.    He  met  it  all  with  a  gallant  defiance, 

titea  whimsical,  always  good-natured   and  exhilarating. 

The  hemorrhage  he  nicknamed  '  Bluidy  Jack,'  and  fought 

it  u  an  admiral  might  engage  a  three-decker  of  the  enemy. 

After  two  of  its  attacks,  in  his  last  year,  he  writes :  '  No 

good  denying  that  this  annoys,  because  it  do.    However, 

70U  must  expect  influenza  t^  leave  some  harm,  and  my 

spirits,  appetite,  peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men  are  all 

oa  a  rising  market'    When  at  one  time  nature  had  been  too 

much  for  him,  and  he  had  written  some  pages  of  'the  wail- 

ing«  of  a  crushed  worm,'  he  destroyed  them  and  sent  a  fine 

piece  of  fooling  instead.    Stevenson's  St.  Ives,  like  Scott's 

Count  Sobert  o/Faris,  in  the  work  of  a  dying  man.    With  a 

pathetic  intuition  he  likens  his  book  to  the  other,  and  the 

most  enthusiastic  lover  of  Scott  will  own  that  St.  Ives  does 

not  suffer  in  that  comparison.    Thus  he  constantly  flung  off 

d«I»ession  and  turned  again  to  his  task  with  a  glorious 

Iwgbter,  untU  he  had  fairly  turned  the  tables  upon  calamity. 

819 


i\ 


H 


*  I 


.■I'i 


^4 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.   L.   8T1YBN80K 

Long  before  Uie  Vailiiua  days  h«  had  written  of  Seotli 

'  Porarty,  iU.lnok,  anterpriia  and  eonatant  neolution,  an 

ihm  of  tha  legend  of  this  country'e  hiatory.    The  h« 

and  kings  of  SooUand  have  been  tragioaUy  fated ;  the  n 

marking  inoidente  in  Soottish  histoiy— Flodden.  Darien 

the  Forty.Plve— were  stiU  either  fkilnres  or  defeate;  i 

the  faU  of  Wallaoe  and  the  repeated  reverses  of  the  Bn 

oombine  with  the  very  smallness  of  the  country  to  te 

rather  a   moral  than  a  material  criterion  for  life.' 

another  of  his  earlier  books  he  quotes  the  words  of  There 

y  •  ICake  your  failure  tragical  by  courage,  and  it  will  not  dij 

from  success.'    In  his  closing  years  all  this  came  home 

himself,  and    found    him   prepared  with  an  unflbchi 

intrepidity,  so  that  his  other  words  were  never  more  ( 

plidtly  proved  true  than  in  his  own  experience:  'A hi 

measure  of  health  is  only  necessary  for  unhealthy  peop! 

and  '  tme  health  is  to  be  able  to  do  without  it' 

Ihe  conjunction  of  fatalism  and  courage  prepares  as 
expect  a  serious  view  of  moral  life.  The  noble  life  ia  aw 
easy,  and  was  never  meant  to  be  so.  It  is  a  kingdom 
the  strenuous,  and  its  gates  open  for  them  alone.  1 
gospel  may  begin  with  thoughte  about  birds  of  the  air  u 
lilies  of  the  field,  and  the  promise  of  an  easy  yoke ;  but  wh( 
it  comes  to  the  actual  grapple  of  experience,  it  is  a  narro 
way  and  a  strait  gate  by  which  men  must  enter,  not  withoi 
an  agony  of  striving.  Every  book  of  Stevenson's  shows  ho 
well  he  knew  this.  The  difficulty  of  life's  task  and  the  hei^ 
of  its  calling  are  ever  before  him,  and  it  was  the  sense  ( 
these  which  gave  him  some  of  his  greatest  thoughts. 

Chief  among  such  thoughte  was  that  of  dual  personalis 
which  found  so  speedy  and  world-wide  a  recognition  in  Ih 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  Popular  religion  adopted  the  allegor 
partly  because  it  was  a  modem  echo  of  St.  Paul's  words  to  ti» 
Bomans.  in  which  the  apostle  describes  himself  as  leadioi 

sso 


1IANLINB88    AND    HIALTH 

tki  donbl*  lift  of  vnwilliBg  dn  uid  unfulfilled  detir*  for 
koUiMM.  But  atill  more  muit  th«  popularity  of  Jtiyll  and 
Syi*  be  attributed  to  ite  ghaatly  truthfulneM  a*  a  reaeript 
of  eommon  ezperienoe.  In  thie  myaterioua  twofoldneu  of 
tke  inner  life  it  waa  felt  that  Sterenaon,  like  St  Paul  before 
bin,  had  ezpoeed  the  root  of  all  our  moral  dUBeultiea.  It  ia 
bMaoM  of  the  war  of  the  carnal  man  againat  the  spiritual  man 
within  them  that  the  beat  men,  though  they  may  approach 
the  great  taak  and  adventure  of  life  with  light  hearta,  grow 
gnT6  and  item  aa  they  advance.  For  Stevenson  thia  was 
a  dominant  type  of  ethical  thought,  and  it  is  never  absent 
from  any  of  his  delineations  of  character.  It  corresponds 
with  the  duality  which  he  finds  in  nature — that '  beauty  and 
terror  of  the  world '  to  which  we  have  referred  so  often.  In 
nuuiy  different  lights  and  aspects  he  exhibits  it  Some- 
times we  see  the  essential  life  in  poise,  ready  to  identify 
iteelf  with  either  the  good  or  the  evil  possible  man  within. 
In  other  cases,  described  with  equal  power,  each  of  the  two 
alternately  claims  the  soul  for  its  owUr  Now  it  is  selfish* 
aeaa  and  generosity  that  are  pitted  against  each  other ;  again 
it  ia  a  just  reason  against  nerves  quivering  with  petty  spite. 
In  Dtaeon  Brodie  the  tragedy  is  represented  as  it  wrought 
itaelf  out  in  an  actual  history ;  in  many  of  the  novels  it  is 
invented  to  bring  out  various  aspects  of  the  same  dread 
warfare.  Dr.  Desprez  exclaims  to  Jean-Marie :'  I  am  in  the 
Uaek  fit:  the  evil  spirit  of  £ing  Saul,  the  hag  of  the 
merchant  Abudah,  the  personal  devil  of  the  mediseval 
monk,  ia  with  me,  is  in  me  (tapping  on  his  breast).  The 
vioea  of  my  nature  are  now  uppermost ;  innocent  pleasures 
woo  me  in  vain ;  I  long  for  Paris,  £or  my  wallowing  in  the 
mire,'— and  he  hands  over  to  the  boy  the  money  in  his 
pockets  and  beseeches  him  rather  U>  wreck  the  train  than 
to  let  him  go.  The  Ma$Ur  of  BaUantrae  is  another  instance, 
in  which  the  refined  sensitiveness  of  the  exterior  serves  but 

221 


;^-| 


t 


.:::^l^ 


f,  I 

I  3 


Mi       . 


THl    FAITH    OF    R.   L.   ST1TBN80N 

to  tluow  into  duk«  nUof  tho  impodaiit  groMo«M  witli 
It  is  the  pmoiMl  not*  of  de«p  and  wm  ezpnience  tl 
nakm  «U  ttieh  dMoriptioni  of  tho  double  life  tad 
wwfwe  so  wonderfully  telling.  •!  send  you/  he  writM 
Mr.  Low,  in  a  letter  Mcompenying  the  newly  written  I 
JtkffU  aiui  Mr.  Hydt,  '  I  eend  yon  herewith  a  Gothic  gn^ 
for  your  Greek  nymph ;  but  the  gnome  is  interesting,  I  thin 
and  he  oame  out  of  a  deep  mine,  where  he  guards  tl 
fountain  of  tears.'  We  are  left  to  conjecture  what  inn 
struggles  gave  the  suggestion  for  that  dream  which  took  i 
final  form  in  the  aU^[ory. 

Our  double  nature  is  the  radical  difficulty  in  morali,y( 

it  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  trouble.    In  every  departmet 

the  detail  of  goodness  is  far  more  difficult  than  it  seem 

Any  course  in  life,  looked  at  thoughtlessly,  seems  to  offer « 

not  only  a  possible  but  an  easy  career  of  goodness,  if  only  w 

were  set  free  from  the  present,  which  always  appears  to  b 

handicapped.    Yet  the  easy  aspect  is  but  an  illusion,  m 

we  only  need  to  enter  on  the  career  to  find  that  out.    Th 

most  typical  instance  of  this  is  the  case  of  honesty,  to  whicl 

he  very  often  reverts.    People  in  one  rank  of  society  vie« 

with  envious  eyes  those  in  another  rank,  thinking  that  fo; 

them  •  honesty  is  no  virtue,  but  a  thing  as  natural  as  breath 

ing.'    Even  for  themselves  most  people  consider  honesty  i 

virtue  which  they  may  take  for  granted,  aid  which  thej 

find  '  as  easy  as  Blind-Man's  Buff.'    Stevenson  thinks  other 

wise.    In  1^  and  commercial  questions  he  shows  by  many 

illustrations  scattered  throughout  his  books  that  honesty 

is '  a  more  delicate  affair  than  that;  delicate  as  any  art.'   It 

is  in  this  that  he  finds  the  difficulty  of  moral  life  most 

pressing,  and  he  devotes  much  labour  to  working  out  the 

detail  of  his  contention.    As  regards  possession,  for  instance, 

he  is  very  expKcit,  whether  the  possession  be  great  or  small 

'  It  is  not  enough  to  take  off  your  hat,  or  to  thank  God  upcm 


MANLINKB8    AND    HEALTH 

jov  InMi  for  Um  •dminbl*  constitation  of  society  and 
jntown  ooBTWiimt  utuation  in  ito  nppn  and  more  oraa- 
■wUl  stories.  KeitlMr  is  it  enough  to  hnj  the  loaf  with 
iwpeuoe,  for  then  yon  are  only  changing  the  point  of  the 
jaqviry;  and  you  mnst  first  hare  bought  the  $ixpenee. 
Sinrice  for  serrioe :  how  hare  you  bought  your  sixpences  f ' 
Again,  as  regards  labour,  the  same  principles  apply.  He 
who  undertakes  to  forge  a  knife,  to  cultivate  a  farm,  to  j 
ffiila  a  book,  to  hold  an  ofloe,  is  accepting  a  certain  portion 
of  the  material  or  intellectual  property  of  mankind  on  trust. 
That  be  shall  produce  good  workmanship  is  not  a  matter 
which  concerns  himself  alone.  In  no  department  can  he 
piodnce  bad  workmanship  without  abusing  the  trust  con- 
ided  in  him,  and  fraudulenUy  wasting  material  which  is  in 
DO  MDse  his  own.  In  all  employments  •  the  slovenly  is  the  • 
diihonest,'  and  the  careless  workman  has  by  no  means  settled 
kii  score  with  the  universe  when  he  is  punished  by  personal 
mt  of  success.  He  has  still  to  answer  for  abuse  of  trust 
pR^rty. 

This  instance  of  honesty  is  but  one  out  of  many  examples 
which  might  be  chosen.  We  have  called  it  the  typical  ex- 
ample, because  it  sets  the  point  of  view  for  Stevenson's  theory 
of  the  whole  active  service  of  human  life.  In  his  view  of 
duty  there  is  nothing  slavish,  as  of  those  who  cringe  before 
imsster,  and  act  under  the  lash ;  neither  is  there  much  of 
the  free  and  comprehending  spirit  of  love  to  God.  in  which 
»U  theorising  is  lost  in  the  desire  to  please  One  who  is  very 
dew  to  our  hearts.  His  attitude  is  rather  that  of  a  man 
pMsionately  endeavouring  to  be  honest  and  to  pay  his  debt 
lofkr  as  he  may.  It  is  not  the  fully  developed  Christian 
doctruie;  yet  it  is  exactly  modeUed  upon  many  sayings  of 
Christ  The  parables  of  the  Pounds  and  the  Talent*  are 
with  him  in  this  teaching,  and  that  far-reaching  and  seldom 
Ndised  word  to  the  disciples, '  When  ye  have  done  all. . . . 

S>8 


i)  I 


11  : 


h 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

M7,  We  an  nnprofiUUe  Mnruto :  w«  have  done  that  whi(^ 
waa  ovr  duty  to  da'  There  waa  much  nnezpiesaed  lovti 
behind  SteTenson'e  aervioe,  aa  there  ia  behind  that  of! 
manj.another  reticent  diadple. 

Thii,  however,  ia  bat  a  specimen.     The  difficulty  (tf{ 
fotgiring  injuries  is  almost  aa  pointedly  stated  as  that  of 
being  honest    Truth  is  difficult,  so  is  good  temper,  so  ii 
purity;  and  passages  might  be  quoted  which  show  eveiy 
one  of  the  cardinal  virtues  in  an  arduous  and  trying  aspect 
The  difficulty  is  increased  by  circumstances.    Heredity  in  I 
Bome,  natural  taste  and  dispoaition  in  others,  marriage,  the  i 
necessities  of  business,  the  condition  of  one's  health,  all  help  | 
to  complicate  the  situation.    Altogether  the  art  of  living  is  I 
very  hard  to  learn,  and  this  is  a  aupremely  difficult  world 
/to  be  good  in.    To  many  these  constantly  repeated  wun- 
'^  ings  may  appear  disconcerting  and  unintelligible.    But  all 
those  who  have  any  experience  of  earnest  struggle  against ! 
evil,  and  any  consequent  knowledge  of  their  own  hearts,  will  \ 
find  in  them  a  wonderfully  companionable  and   helpful 
message.    It  is  much  to  know,  when  we  are  tempted  and 
i  discouraged,  that  there  are  others  by  our  side  who  feel  the 
same  difficulties.    It  is  far  more  when  these  difficulties  m  \ 
expressed  as  Stevenson  has  been  able  to  express  them.   In 
his  lucid  words  they  stand  out  in  such  clearness  that  we 
feel  we  have  seen  them  in  their  final  form,  and  that  the 
vague  burden  of  a  general  sense  of  demand  which  we  cannot 
fulfil  is  exchanged  for  a  set  of  definite  encounters  with  life  : 
on  fields  which  he  has  made  plain  to  our  eye& 

All  teaching  which  emphasises  the  difficulty  of  high  ideals  \ 
runs  the  risk  of  ending  in  laxity.  Professor  Masson  has  ; 
cited  Milton  as  a  standing  exception  to  the  common  rule  \ 
that  poets  and  artists  generally  'are  and  ought  to  bedis«  i 
tinguished  by  a  predominance  of  sensibility  over  principle,  j 
an  excess  of  what  Coleridge  called  the  spiritual  over  what  \ 
334 


MANLINESS    AND    HEALTH 

he  called  the  moral  part  of  man.'    How  shaU  Steveiuon 
stand  in  this  judgment?    Hie  sensibiUty  and  spirituality 
an  beyond  question,  and  we  have  already  shown  that 
these  quaUtiea  were  reinforced  by  a  catholic  appreciation 
of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  by  a  kindly  interest 
in  aU  the  phases  of  Ufe.    We  might  therefore  expect  his 
strong  sense  of  the  difficulty  of  being  good  to  end  in  a 
general  amnesty,  with  no  place  left  in  it  for  condemnation 
or  even  for  moral  earnestness.    He  has  praised  in  a  friend 
'  bis  pious  acceptance  of  the  universe ' :  how  much,  ethicaUy, 
does  that  involve?    Does  it  mean  that  we  are  to  refrain 
from  attempting  to  change  the  universe  in  any  part,  or  is 
there  stUl  room  left  for  aggression  in  the  moral  domain  ? 
He,  more  than  almost  any  other  writer,  has  helped  us  to 
reaUse  pkinly  the  extreme  difficulty  of  a  noble  Ufe.  and  he 
has,  like  many  humane  thinkers  of  our  time,  insisted  on  the 
gentleness  of  God  in  judgment.    '  He  who  shall  pass  judg- 
ment on  the  records  of  our  life  is  the  same  that  formed  us  ^ 
in  frailty';  and  whUe  men  know  only,  in  regard  to  flagrant 
acts,  our  exceptional  sins,  God  knows  and  allows  for  our 
exceptional  excuses.    Yet  with  all  this  he  does  not  succumb 
to  that  nerveless  and  maudlin  compassion  wliich  some  have 
mistaken  for  charitable  judgment    The  God  of  such  weak- 
lings has  good -humour  for  His  distinguishing  attribute 
instead  of  holiness;  and   Stevenson   is  weU   aware  that 
without  hoUness  no  man  shall  see  the  Lord.    It  is  because 
of  his  consuming  sense  of  the  reality  of  moral  character 
that  he  feeb  its  difficulty  so  keenly.    His  interests  and  his 
sympathies  are  wide,  and  he  has  seen  that  sterling  virtue  is 
widely  diffused  in  the  world.    Accordingly  he  falls  back 
from  the  sense  of  difficulty  not  upon  skckness  as  a  thing 
ineviUble  in  so  impossible  a  world,  but  upon  courage  and 
strenuousness  that  may,  at  worst,  rescue  what  we  can  from 
the  wreck.    His  elaborate  and  frequent  exposition  of  the 

P  225 


it   I 


ill 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.   L.    8TBVBN80N 

difficulties  is  not  of  the  nature  of  a  sentimental  sigh,  which 
is  really  an  excuse  for  failure;  it  is  a  challenge  sent  out 
into  the  hattle  hy  a  willing  soldier. 

Thus  we  come  again  to  that  moral  earnestness  in  him  of 
which  our  past  studies  have  afforded  us  so  many  examples. 
It  is  true  that  no  writer  of  our  time  hw  introduced  a  moie 
quaint  humour  into  serious  considerations.  Thus  in  The 
Bkuk  Arrow,  Joanna  laments  her  forced  wearing  of  men's 
clothes, '  which  is  a  deadly  sin  for  a  woman ;  and,  besides, 
they  fit  me  not.'  In  the  children's  rhymes  and  Moral 
EwhUmu  there  is  much  in  this  vein.  The  whole  duty  of  a 
child  is  to  behave  himself  well  in  various  specified  situa- 
tions, 'at  least  as  far  as  he  is  able.'  In  the  emblem 
attached  to  a  woodcut  of  one  man  pushing  another  over 
a  cliff,  we  are  invited  to 

'Mark,  printed  on  the  opporing  page, 
The  oi^rtuiutte  eflfoota  of  lage,' 

which  turn  out,  however,  to  consist  mainly  in  the  uncomfort- 
able reflections  which  are  likely  to  annoy  the  murderer.  A 
more  elaborate  engraving  of  a  beggar  asking  alms  in  vain 
from  a  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat,  has  a  verse  opposite  it 
which  ends  in  the  lines : 

'  He  from  the  poor  averta  hia  head.  .  .  . 
He  will  regret  it  when  he  'a  dead.' 

The  comicality  of  these  is  irresistible,  and  it  is  the  comicality 
of  the  Scottish  Stevenson  rather  than  of  the  French.  It 
does  not  mean  that  he  judged  moral  questions  simply  from 
the  artistic  standpoint,  as  ultimately  matters  of  good  or  bad 
taste;  but  only  that  in  all  Scotsmen  there  is  that  grim 
humour  with  which  Carlyle  has  familiarised  the  world,  and 
which  is  never  more  effective  than  when  it  plays  on  moral 
problems. 
To  convince  ourselves  of  his  moral  earnestness  we  need 
226 


MANLINESS    AND    HEALTH 
onlj  recoUeot  the  exaggerated  condemnation  of  reward  as  a 
motive  to  good  deeds.    Whether  in  the  shape  of  money,  or 
of  glory,  or  even  of  seeing  some  result  of  our  labour,  we  noted 
how  he  utterly  repudiated  the  notion  of  payment  for  virtue, 
and  considered  it  the  enemy  of  piety.    It  is  by  no  means' 
necessary  to  agree  with  him  in  that  view  in  order  to  see  the 
moral  earnestness  which  lay  behind  it    The  main  reason 
for  his  antagonism  was  that  in  his  opinion  morality  was  far 
too  serious  a  matter  to  allow  any  such  consideration  to 
enter.    '  The  world  must  return  some  day  to  the  word  duty, 
tnd  be  done  with  the  word  reward.    There  are  no  rewards 
snd  plenty  duties.    And  the  sooner  a  man  sees  that  and 
acts  upon  it  like  a  genUeman  or  a  fine  old  barbarian,  the 
better  for  himself.'    Another  iUustration  is  found  in  h.6 
views  as  to  the  nature  and  value  of  money.    Pressing  the 
weU-known  principle  of  poUtical  economy  to  its  detailed 
applications,  he  finds  that  a  certain  amount  of  money  is 
necessary,  •  but  beyond  that,  it  is  a  commodity  to  be  bought 
or  not  to  be  bought,  a  luxury  in  which  we  may  either 
indulge  or  stint  ourselves  like  any  other.    And  there  are 
many  luxuries  that  we  may  legitimately  prefer  to  it,  such 
M  a  grateful  conscience,  a  country  life,  or  the  woman  of  our 
incUnation.'     Witiiout  soul,  with  its  appetites,  aspirations, 
appreciations,  the  rich  man  remains  miserably  poor— 'bank-' 
nipt  of  desire  and  hope,  there,  in  his  great  house,  let  him  sit 
and  look  upon  his  fingers.'     For  his  own  part.  Stevenson 
tells  us  he  wants  but  little  money,  'and  I  do  not  want  to 
be  decent  at  all,  but  to  be  good.' 

This  desire  to  be  good  involves  more  than  appears.  He 
knows  the  cost  of  goodness  in  anxious  carefulness  of  life,  and 
m  'the  daily  expense  of  spirit.'  Every  situation  in  life  is  a 
dangerous  and  critical  post.  Those  who  are  married  have 
donbled  the  ideahi  which  they  must  serve:  they  have  'domesti- 
Mted  the  Recording  Angel,'  and '  their  witness  is  not  only  the 

227 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

judge  bat  the  victim  of  their  sina.'  Tet  eyen  for  the  nnmarried 
the  demands  of  conadence  tie  seuohiog  and  severe  beyond 
men'i  ordinary  ideas  of  morality,  for  they  are  dealing  with  a 
divine  and  eternal  criterion  in  every  act  Every  day  brings 
to  every  man  new  opportunities;  and  one  of  the  thinp 
on  which  Stevenson  lays  great  stress  is  the  critical  nature 
of  the  question  whether  a  man  shall  prove  worthy  of  hit 
opportnnitiea.  The  doctrine  of  poaitive  aa  contrasted  with/ 
negative  virtue  atill  further  provea  our  point,  for '  aa  we  musr 
account  for  every  idle  word,  ao  we  muat  account  for  eveiyj 
idle  silence.'  And  then,  to  fail  is  a  desperate  mattery 
because  evil  ia  ao  hateful.  If  our  reading  of  hia  portrayal 
of  the  ainfulneaa  of  ain^  be  the  correcic  one,  we  have  already 
ahown  how  bitterly  in  hia  heart  he  hated  evil.  This  most, 
of  courae,  be  gathered  not  ao  much  from  direct  atatements 
or  tiradea  againat  wickedneaa,  aa  from  the  general  tone  of 
hia  treatment  of  moral  queationa.  No  one  thinks  of 
inveighing  againat  evil  in  the  abatract,  becauae  it  is  taken 
for  granted  that  every  man,  if  he  be  not  reprobate,  is  on  tbe 
aide  of  good.  A  man'a  moral  attitude  is  to  be  judged  rather 
from  the  aincerity  and  apontaneouanesa  of  hia  ahrinking  from 
what  ia  evil  and  hia  unconacioua  influence  in  leading  hii 
readera  to  ahrink  from  it,  aa  from  a  thing  loathsome  and 
abhorrent.  That  Stevenson  haa  done  with  a  power  which  has 
aeldom  been  aurpaaaed.  It '~  needlesa  to  multiply  examples, 
when  they  are  to  be  found  in  almost  everything  be  wrote. 
Tet  the  one  touch  in  Markheim,  where  he  deacribea  for  us  a 
man  in  whom  the  hatred  of  evil  survives  the  death  of  all 
love  of  good,  is  alone  a  conduaive  proof  that  in  him  we  have 
one  whoae  eameatneas,  as  well  as  his  insight,  is  assnied. 
To  moat  men,  in  thia  world  where  the  finer  apiritual  and 
moral  life  growa  alowly  from  the  primitive  aoil  of  coaite 
and  animal  inatincta,  hatred  ia  a  principle  hardier  and  more 

>  P.  14S. 
228 


MANLINBSS    AND    HEALTH 

iuUenable  than  love,  whether  for  evil  or  for  good.    Browning 
knew  this  well  when  he  wrote  his  great  lines : 

'  Dute,  ^o  lored  well  beoaoM  be  hated, 
Hated  wickedneM  that  hinden  lonog.' 

Stevenson  could  not  have  loved  the  good  so  well,  had  thete 
not  been  in  him  a  bitter  hatred  of  the  evil. 

We  have  already  noted  his  power  of  depicting  the  moral 
tragedy  of  life.    It  must  now  be  added  that  apart  from  all 
ooosideratioas  of  the  picturesque  and  vivid  by  which  that 
tngedy  may  have  tempted  him,  the  real  secret  of  his  success 
in  this  department  lay  in  moral  earnestness.    In  some  of 
his  more  violcat  work,  such  as  The  Bottie  Imp,  we  see  the 
tmgedy  at  its  most  exciting  point  of  horror;  or,  tm  in  The 
Ortat  North  Road,  the  criminal,  growing  insane  in  the  reck- 
lessness of  crime,  finds  that  it  has  now  come  to  the  question 
whether  he '  minds  for  God.'  Yet  it  is  not  in  such  passages  as 
these  that  Stevenson's  moral  earnestness  is  most  impressive, 
but  rather  in  his  calmer  work.    Near  the  close  of  The  made 
Jmw  there  is  a  passage  which  it  would  be  hard  to  match 
for  quiet  power  of  this  kind,  where  Dick,  at  the  expense  of 
his  own  favour  with  the  Duke,  saves  the  life  of  Captain 
Arblaster,  upon  whom  he  has  unwittingly  brought  ruin. 

'  Arblaster,'  said  Dick,  •  I  have  done  you  ill ;  but  now,  by  the 
rood,  I  thmk  I  have  cleared  the  score.' 
M  the  old  skipper  only  looked  upon  him  dully  and  held  his 

'Come,'  continued  Dick,  's  life  is  a  life,  old  shrew,  and  it  is 

Bworth  nothmg  to  you,  it  hath  cost  me  the  beginnings  of  my 

?„%  ,PTu'  I  ''•^'  P"*^  ^''^  •'  ^"^'^y  ■'  ^  »«t  -o  churlish.' 
An  I  had  had  my  ship.'  «iid  Arblaster,  'I  would  'a  been 


quoth 
"Murrain"  was  the  last  of  his 

229 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

w(Hrds,  and  the  poor  ipirit  of  him  pMMcL  'A  will  never  nil  no 
more  will  my  Tom.' 

Diek  wee  Mixed  wilh  unavailing  penitence  and  pity;  he 
■ought  to  take  the  ■kipper'e  hand,  hut  Arblaeter  avoided  hii 
touch. 

'Nay,'  said  he,  'let  be.  Y'  have  played  the  devil  with  me, 
and  let  that  content  you.' 

The  worde  died  in  Richard's  throat  He  saw,  through 
t^an,  the  poor  old  man,  bemused  with  liquor  and  sorrow,  go 
shambling  away,  with  bowed  head,  across  the  snow,  and  the 
unnoticed  dog  whimpering  at  his  heels ;  and  for  the  first  time 
began  to  understand  the  desperate  game  tiut  we  play  in  life, 
and  how  a  thing  once  done  is  not  to  be  changed  or  remedied  hj 
any  penitence.' 

The  moral  earnestness  wliich  this  passage  and  many  others 
reveal  might  well  have  led  him  into  an  austere  morality 
and  given  us  our  last  glimpse  of  him  trudging,  in  the  wake 
of  Hermiston, '  up  the  great  bare  staircase  of  his  duty.'  He 
cultivates  a  solemnising  and  sometimes  terrifying  serioni- 
ness  in  dealing  with  grave  moral  subjects,  and  insists  that 
it  is  part  of  true  manhood  to  be  able  to  be  serious  when 
occasion  requires  it  Kemembering  the  morbid  passages  in 
Memories  and  Portraits,  and  the  exceptional  power  he  had 
of  lowering  his  lights  until  the  darkness  of  his  work  grew 
altogether  depressing,  one  watches  for  the  end  and  the  final 
verdict  with  anxious  curiosity.  He  has  a  Hebrew  con- 
science and  a  Oreek  imagination,  a  Scottish  sense  of  sin 
and  a  French  delight  in  beauty.  Austerity  might  con- 
ceivably claim  such  a  spirit  for  its  own,  and  send  him 
eventually  forth  in  sackcloth,  a  prophet  of  pessimism.  On 
the  other  baud,  by  sheer  force  of  reaction  from  his  sense  of 
the  tragic  in  human  life,  he  might  have  left  the  bitter 
problems  alone  and  turned  to  lightnen. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  took  neither  of  these  courses,  but 
one  better  and  more  true  to  himself  than  either  of  tbeo. 
In  him  duty  and  pleasure  were  both  imiienttive  and  he 
230 


MAKllKESS    AND    HEALTH 

managed  to  retain  them  both.  A  paaeing  sentence  in  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Edmund  Ooase  may  serve  to  iUostrate  this.  He  is 
eoauselling  his  friend  regarding  style:  'And  in  a  style 
which  (like  yours)  aims  more  and  more  successfuUy  at  the 
academic,  one  purple  word  is  already  much;  three— a 
whole  phrase— is  inadmissible.  Wed  yourself  to  a  dean 
austerity;  that  is  your  force.  Wear  a  linen  ephod 
Vlendidljfeandid:  The  words  which  we  have  underlined 
m  delightfully  significant  Both  are  Latin  words,  obvi- 
oosly  intended  to  be  understood  in  their  Latin  sense.  With 
Uus  shining  whiteness,  this  brilliance  of  raiment  white  and 
glistering,  a  writer  assuredly  needs  no  purple.  But  the 
austerity  which  has  reached  such  effulgence  has  almost 
ceased  to  be  austere,  and  this  was  his  only  sort  of  austerity 
either  in  art  or  in  morals.  Life  was  painted  for  him  in 
high  lights  and  deep  shadow,  and  neither  the  light  nor  the 
darkness  had  it  aU  its  owu  way.  In  the  brightest  hour 
there  is  a  shadow,  in  the  darkest  a  gleam. 

Nor  do  the  two  moods  alternate  in  a  broken  and  fitful 
life.  Rather,  the  impression  which  grows  as  we  watch  the 
advancing  years  is  that  of  sanity  and  balanced  thought.  If 
there  is  less  of  exuberance,  there  is  more  of  quiet  certainty. 
He  retains  his  enthusiasm.  Sanity  never  means  with  him 
a  deadening  of  vitaUty.  nor  yet  does  he  ever  return  even 
for  a  moment  to  the  prison-house  of  the  conventional  from 
which  he  broke  loose  once  for  aU  in  youth.  Only  there 
u  an  assured  and  confirmed  healthfulness  and  an  all- 
round  naturalness  of  view,  which  are  increasingly  marked 
and  always  bracing  and  inspiring.  '  I  am,'  so  he  tells  us  at 
the  age  of  thirty-eight.  'very  gkd  to  fight  out  my  battle, 
and  see  some  fine  sunsets,  and  hear  some  exceUent  jests  be-' 
tween  whiles  round  the  camp  fire.'  Thus  do  the  affectotions 
of  youth  pass  more  and  more  into  a  harmonious  naturalness 
of  thought  and  character.    He  knows  himself,  and  what  he 

231 


m 


Si 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.   STIVXNSON 


< . 


is  fit  (or,  and  what  he  prefer*.    He  is  no  longer  either  i 
aggressiTe  or  on  his  defenee,  but  calm  and  smiling  even 
while  he  makes  his  most  startling  annonnoements.    Pagaa  j 
in  the  frank  delight  in  pleannt  and  bright  things,  Puritan  i 
in  the  austerity  of  his  moral  judgments,  he  appreciates  the  i 
strength  of  rade  elemental  virtues  and  also  the  delicacy  of 
spiritual  refinements.    But  ever  it  is  naturalness,  truth  to  i 
himself  and  his  nature  as  he  finds  these,  that  is  his  guiding  i 
principle.    He  recognises  the  fact  that  each  man  has,  for  i 
any  given  period  of  his  life,  a  certain  normal  level,  on  which  i 
alone  he  can  lead  a  healthy  moral  life.   There  are  some  who  ^ 
allow  themselves  to  sink  below  that  level,  and  these  are  they 
who  dwell  in  darkness,  lit  by  no  ideals :  other6  have  been  \ 
taught  by  conventional  morality  to  aspire  to  high-flown  ; 
virtues  which  are  entirely  out  of  their  present  reach,  and 
these,  blind  to  the  fact  that  the  ideals  they  claim  to  live  by  \ 
are  for  them  no  more  than  words,  are  the  unconscious  and  i 
well-meaning  hypocrites.    For  himself,  he  knows  his  limit- 
ations and  his  reach,  and  lives  up  to  the  stretch  of  his 
present  strength  and  light,  knowing  that  the  only  way  to 
gain  the  sunlit  heights  is  by  patiently  climbing  shoulder  \ 
after  shoulder  of  the  mountain-side. 

Health  is,  above  all  other  words,  the  distinguishing  and  ' 
appropriate  word  for  him.  Cynicism  he  hates  as  an  acute  ; 
and  disastrous  form  of  morbidness.  He  will  allow  just  a 
touch  of  it,  as  a  tonic  '  in  cases  of  advanced  sensibility,'  or 
to  keep  people  from  a  silly  extravagance  of  optimism  in  i 
moral  aifairs.  'So  much  of  cynicism  to  recognise  that  \ 
nobody  does  right  is  the  best  equipment  for  those  who  do  i 
not  wish  to  be  cynics  in  good  earnest'  For  the  fashionable  \ 
cyric  he  cannot  find  words  too  scornful.  He  knows  the  \ 
perverse  modem  delight  in  misery,  and  the  books  in  which  : 
'young  gentlemen  with  three  or  four  hundred  a  year  of  : 
private  means  look  down  from  a  pinnacle  of  doleful  experi- 

ass 


KAlfLlNBSS    AND    HEALTH 

•nee  on  all  the  grown  and  hearty  men  who  have  darad  to 
mj  a  good  word  for  life  atnce  the  beginning  of  the  world.' 
Be  knowi  that  aort  of  book,  and  he  abominatee  it    '  I  hate 
^yaidem  a  great  deal  worw)  than  I  do  the  deril,'  mjs  he. 
'  uleM  perhaps  the  two  wen  the  aame  thing  I '    In  contrast 
with  all  such  morbidness  we  turn  to  his  descriptions  of 
ksroes  and  to  those  casual  lists  of  ideals  in  which  a  writer 
betrays  without  premediution  his  own  preference  and  ad- 
miration.   Here  are  a  few  of  them,  typical  of  many  others. 
Rre,  thrift,  and  ooursge— a  creature  fnU-blooded  and  in- 
spiled  with  energy.'    •  Never  to  set  up  to  be  soft,  only  to  be 
iqure  and  hearty,  and  a  man  all  round,'    •  A  fine  face,  hon- 
oaraUe  rather  than  intelligent,  strong,  simple,  and  righteous.' 
'Strong, healthy,  highstruog  and  generous  natures.'    •  Yery, 
nrj  nice  fellows,  simple,  good,  and  not  the  least  dull' 
Such  estimates  prepare  us  for  the  more  deliberate  summary 
of  human  virtue  which  is  now  one  of  the  meet  familiar  of 
^  sayings :  •  To  be  honest,  to  be  kind—to  earn  a  litUe  and 
to  spend  a  UtUe  less,  to  make  upon  the  whole  a  famUy 
bppier  for  his  presence,  to  renounce  when  that  shaU  be 
necessary  and  not  be  embittered,  to  keep  a  few  friends  but 
these  without  capitulation-above  aU.  on  the  same  grim 
eoDdition.  to  keep  friends  with  himself— here  is  a  task  for 
>U  that  a  man  has  of  fortitude  and  delicacy.'    The  closing 
words  may  be  taken  as  the  best  possible  summary  of  his 
Weals,  and  the  best   account   also   of  his   achievement 
Fortitude  and  delicacy— in  these  is  the  fulfiUing  of  the  Law 
•ccording  to  R.  L  S. 

One  other  instance  of  his  general  healthfulness  must  be 
mentioned.  It  is  the  spirit  of  purity  which  everywhere 
breathes  in  his  work.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  any 
witer  of  so  many  books  who  has  penned  so  few  lines  that 
•wve  a  stain  upon  the  memory.  Not  that  there  is  the 
"lightest  suspicion  of  prudery  about  him.     He  is  realist 

233 


THl    FAITH    OV   B.   L.   8TBTIN80N 

anoagfa  to  iniist  npon  itott  wImii  h*  hM  to  daal  with 

vnplMMant  ohanoten  and  litaationa,  ud  1m  NMnta  inter- 

fwenoo  in  raoh  matten.    Indaed  tbay  ai«  aafa  in  hi*  lundi. 

In  reading  hia  broadait  dalinaationa  of  ugly  vioa  or  aavagt 

ronghnaw  of  mannm,  than  atill  ramaina  tha  undefiuable 

>anaa  that  wa  ara  in  tha  praianoa  of  a  man  of  delicate  and 

clean  inatinota.    He  haa  deaoribad  men'a  houaea  aa  the  little 

olean  apota  which  they  create  to  dwell  in;  and  one  feela, 

in  all  hia  hooka,  that  ha  haa  bnilt  for  the  imagination 

manj  anch  honaaa.    There  ia  nothing  obtnuive  about  this, 

it  ia  aimply  part  of  hia  haalUiineaa  of  mind,  and  we  ore  him 

all  tha  doeper  debt  for  it  on  that  account     In  a  good 

deal  of  the  literatore  of  oar  time  thia  phaaa  of  healthineu 

has  been  conapicuous  by  its  absence.    The  demand  of  the 

age  ia  for  what  ia  interesting;  ennui  threatena  many,  and  to 

combat  it  seyeral  devioea  have  been  employed.    Anything 

(within  certain  limits  of  course)  will  be  forgiven  a  writer 

nowadays — any  grossness,  or  falsehood,  or  unpleasantness— 

so  long  as  he  is  not  dulL    To  meet  thia  demand  one  easy 

expedient  is,  by  suggestion  and  allusion  at  least,  to  utilise 

the  impure  facts  of  life.    Not  that  the  mors'    nculcated  an 

bad — the  modem  conscience  is  not  robust     uugh,  or  rather 

perhaps  it  is  not  honest  enough,  to  peru  ^t  of  that.    The 

moral  ia  generally  excellent ;  but  a  real  impurity  is  possible, 

and  it  ia  quite  aa  interesting,  in  attacks  upon  certain  vices  as 

in  defences  of  them — a  secret  well  known  to  some  of  onr 

writers  of  problem  novels.    From  any  suspicion  of  this, 

Stevenson  is  free.     He  succeeded  in  the  task  of  being 

interacting  without  the  help  of  sensuality.    He  has  sent  i 

cleaL  cud  freah  breeze  blowing  over  us,  like  that  which  we 

feel  in  Scott's  work ;  and  for  this  aervice  alone  our  literature 

and  our  public  morals  owe  him  much. 

As  a  final  illustration  of  Stevenson's  health  of  mind,  1^ 
us  take  his  view  of  the  future  and  of  the  past — regions  of 
234 


XANLIHBSB    AND    HIALTH 

tboaght  in  whiob  a  man  htm  perhap*  a  gi«attr  ehaoM  of 
growing  moibid  than  any  other.  Tha  tpirit  in  whioh  a  man 
kwkt  forwaid  to  tha  f utun  i*  perhapa  tha  moat  obviona  taat 
of  hia  h««lth  of  mind  in  th«  pretant  For  Stevanaon  tha 
fatore  awantiallj  maana  a  new  chanoa.  Tha  maaning  of  Ufa 
itielf  ia  piograM,  and  tha  thought  of  what  wa  yat  may  ba 
it  tha  inspiration  of  tha  presant  'If  wa  ara  indead  hare 
to  perfect  and  oomplete  onr  own  natnraa,  and  grow  laigar, 
•tronger,  and  mora  sjrrapathetio  against  some  nobler  caraer 
in  (he  fntare.  we  had  all  best  bestir  ooraelves  to  the  utmost 
while  we  hare  the  time.  To  equip  a  dull,  respectable 
person  with  wings  would  be  but  to  make  a  parody  of  an 
sogeL'  For  the  strenuous,  the  future  wears  but  one  aspect. 
Por  them  there  is  no  fearful  looking  for  of  judgment  nor 
yet  resignation  in  view  of  an  approaching  doom.  Theirs  it 
is  to  go  bravely  into  the  thick  of  the  fight, 

'  Aad  ia  the  imUay  ohuga  nroain, 
To  fidl  bat  ]r«t  to  riM  agus.' 

Fall  they  will,  no  doubt,  as  they  have  fallen  in  the  post,  but 
God,  who  sent  them  their  opportunity  and  who  also  set  for 
them  the  impediment  through  which  they  missed  it,  will 
act  in  a  manner  worthier  and  more  Godlike  than  that  of 
one  who  is  quick  to  mark  iniquity.    Rather  will  He 

'  Diviner  Tengeanoe  Uke— 
Oire  me  to  ileep,  gire  me  to  wake 
Girded  and  shod,  aad  bid  me  play 
The  hero  inthe  oomiog  day.' 

It  is,  however,  in  regard  to  the  past  that  the  questions  of 
moral  eameatness  and  health  are  most  severely  tested,  and 
demand  the  most  careful  balance.  On  the  one  hand,  the  sick 
wul  is  tempted  to  despair;  on  the  other,  the  healthy-minded 
m  led  oflf  into  too  light-hearted  and  shallow  a  view  of  ain. 
Stevenson's  course  is  steered  between  the  two,  and  there  is 
no  part  of  his  theory  of  life  more  easy  to  formulate  with 

336 


THE    VAITH    OV    B.   L.   BTBYBirsOlf       j 

d«iaiten«M  IhM  hU  dortriM  of  wpwilMiot.    Hit  pnyeisi 
•flbtd  the  cla«rwl  tnuaplw,  thoo^  then  it  •  gnat  deal: 
batklM  t!    ,  might  be  dted.     We  have  eeeti  hie  vi«wi 
of  tik   »vil    f  dn  end  of  its  hetefiilneee,  end  to  tbeie 
pMRup.     vrr  would  agein  refer  the  reeder.^     The  pnyer 
qMi4^'  c.    p.  146  ia  itaelf  eaffloient  erideiioe  of  the  im.j 
IMNtai/:«  r*'  :h>'  plaoe  ^hioh  he  fotuid  for  repentance  in  hit 
BOia)      -L:n     But  jpnfitanoe  ia,  in  hia  eatinwte,  a  verj 
diflbn  r  thi  ik  i  (m    '    ..  nnclean  paaaion  of  remorae,' and 
for  thbo  U(«  '^.'>d  ao  plaoe.    In  hia  Ftajftr  far  Self-hlam, 
after  t<  e  req  ^ .  t   .hat  we  may  feel  our  offencea  with  oar  I 
handa,  ^oe  theui  ^reut  and  bright  like  the  ann,  eat  and  drink 
them  for  onr  diet,  he  goea  on  to  pray :  '  Help  na  at  Uie  same 
time  with  the  grace  of  courage,  that  we  be  none  of  us  cut 
down  when  we  dt  lamenting  amid  the  mine  of  our  happiness 
or  our  int^ty ;  touch  us  with  fire  from  the  altar,  that  we 
may  be  up  and  doing  to  rebuild  our  city.' 

In  a  word,  wkhout  energy,  repentance  ia  disease.  He 
who  can  find  nothing  to  do  but  weep  for  his  sins,  will  end 
by  weeping  because  he  haa  nothing  to  eat  like  Mackellar, 
he  '  knowa  nothing  leaa  reapectable  than  the  tears  of  drunk- 
enneaa,  and  tuma  hia  back  impatiently  on  this  poor  sight' 
He  ia  not  afraid  of  the  application  of  hia  principles  to 
indlTidual  cases,  and  says  plainly  of  Kobert  Bums:  'He 
waa  atill  not  perhaps  devoted  to  religion,  but  haunted  by 
it;  and  at  a  touch  of  aickneaa  prostrated  himwlf  before 
God  in  what  I  can  only  call  unmanly  penitence.'  It  is  in 
the  light  of  these  and  other  auch  statementa  that  we  must 
read  hia  assertion  that  we  all  think  too  much  of  sin. 
'  Never  allow  your  mind  to  dwell  on  your  own  misconduct: 
that  ia  ruin.  The  conacience  haa  morbid  sensibilities;  it 
must  be  employed  but  not  indulged.  .  .  .  Shut  your  eyes 
hard  on  the  recollection  of  your  sins.    Do  not  be  afraid,  yon 

»  P.  145. 


MAMLINBIS    AND    HBALTH 

wfll  Mt  U  Abk  to  fogM  th«B.  .  .  .  Not  miy  action 
ihimid  bo  UnM  ovw;  ono  of  tho  loM^ing  rirtaoi  thorain 
k  to  kt  onooolf  alone.     Bat  if  jon  mako  it  your  cliiof 
tBplojment.  70a  an  murt  to  meddle  too  mnoh.'    Taken  by 
theaeelTee  tbeae  latter  eUtemenU  an  no  doubt  itartling 
Bat  notUng  conld  be  bealthier  than  thoir  teaehing.  if  we 
eodenUnd  them  in  the  eenae  which  he  intended.    There  ie 
•U  the  diAienoe  in  the  world  between  a  eentitive  eonwience 
ud  a  Mmpoloas  one.    And  io  thoM  eentenoea  he  ie  alao 
eombating  a  more  aerioos  evil-*  frame  of  mind  in  which 
mn  are  meanly  grotrelling  before  God.    In  doing  thie  he  ig 
bnt  echoing  the  word*  which  the  prophet  heard  when  he 
fcU  upon  his  face  by  the  rirer  Chebnr.  stnnned  and  terrified 
by  hu  vision,  and  the  Voice  eaid  to  him,  'Son  of  man  stoud 
upon  thy  feet  and  I  wiU  speak  onto  thee.'  So.  in  Stevenson's 
mw.  should   life  even  at  its  worst  be  taken  standing. 
Otherwise  remorse  can  only  lead  to  nselessnees,  and  the 
sense  of  one's  own  sin  to  the  stem  and  unfeeling  condem- 
nation  of  the  trespaasee  of  others. 

It  save  us  from  such  inert  and  profitless  discouragemrait 
he  reminds  us  that  even  aio  has  its  uses  in  the  great  md 
mysterious  design  of  human  life.  •  To  any  but  the  brutish 
man  bis  sins  are  the  beginning  of  wisdom,'  he  protests,  and 
God  warns  men  by  their  crimes.  If  Ufe  be  progress  to  all 
the  strenuous,  then  the  past,  at  its  worst,  ia  yet  a  stage  on 
the  way  to  better  things.  He  tells  the  story  of  a  former 
faend  which  remains  with  all  who  have  read  t  a  a  hopeful 
Md  inspiring  memoiy.  'The  tale  of  this  g  ea  failure  is 
to  those  who  remained  true  to  him,  th-  tale  of  a  success.' 
In  his  youth  he  took  thought  for  no  one  but  himseJf ;  when 
1»  came  ashore  again,  his  whole  armada  lost,  i.e  seemed  to 

thmk  of  none  but  others He  had  gone  t    ruin  with  a 

kind  of  kingly  abandon,  like  one  who  condesc  em.  i    b*Jt  once 
nuned.  with  the  lights  all  out,  he  fought  as   or  a  kingdom.' 

837 


h 


t: 


I 


( 


liij 


'¥¥'-■ 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

And  M  we  come  to  the  moral  of  it  all,  which  may  be 
expressed  in  the  one  phrase, '  Oling  to  what  is  left'    It  is 
a  phrase  illnminated  hy  its  association  with  that  accident  to 
the  canoe,  when  Stevenson,  in  imminent  danger  of  his  life, 
still  dnng  to  his  paddle,  and  chose  this  record  for  a  fitting 
epitaph  to  be  inscribed  upon  his  tomb.    The  incident  is  a 
not  unfitting  allegory  of  his  whole  view  of  the  way  in  which 
a  man  should  deal  with  character.    It  is  a  tragic  aiTair,  this 
human  life  of  ours,  beset  with  dangers  and  foredoomed  to 
many  failures.    Even  the  victors  in  its  contest  shall  as- 
suredly, every  one  of  them,  enter  into  life  maimed.    In 
many  a  moral  crisis  there  will  be  much  that  is  lost,  and 
what  is  lost  in  that  warfare  is  lost  for  ever.    But,  apart 
from  what  may  be  actually  gained,  there  is  always  at  least 
something  that  remains  not  yet  lost.    In  judging  others  it 
is  well  to  remember  this,  and  '  boldly  make  up  your  mind 
that  you  can  do  perfectly  well  without  the  rest ;  and  that 
ten  thousand  bad  traits  cannot  make  a  single  good  one  any 
the  less  good.^    In  meditating  over  one's  own  past,  it  is 
important,  among  all  our  regret  and  shame,  still  to  be 
'  thankful  that  we  are  no  worse.'    '  Honour  can  survive  a 
wound,'  he  writes  in  his  discussion  of  Dumas'  novel;  'it 
can  live  and  thrive  without  a  member.    The  man  rebounds 
from  his  disgrace ;  he  begins  fresh  foundations  on  the  ruins 
of  the  o'  * ;  and  when  his  sword  is  broken  he  will  do 
valiantly  /tiih  his  dagger.    So  it  is  with  Fouquet  in  the 
book ;  so  it  was  with  Dumas  on  the  battlefield  of  life.    To 
oling  to  what  is  left  of  any  damaged  quality  is  virtue  in 
the  man.'     In  this  there  is  the  hope  and  the  spring  of 
renewed  activity.    There  is  no  conceivable  situation  in  life 
which  does  not  offer  a  man  one  right  course  to  follow  at  the 
moment    We  have  seen  how  he  describes  as  the  saddest 
and  most  miserable  feature  in  the  plight  of  Bobert  Bans 
this,  that  he  is  condemned  to  the  choice  of  two  evils,  and 
3S8 


MANLINESS    AND    HBALTH 

whichever  way  he  chooses  he  wUl  still  be  wrong.    That, 
however,  is  but  the  appearance  of  the  case.     In  reality 
there  is  always  a  way  which  wiU  be  right    'Conceive  a 
man,'  says  Mr.  Archer,  'damned  to  a  choice       only  evil— 
miscondoct  upon  either  side  .  .  .  naught        .re  him  but 
this  choice  of  sins.    How  would  you  say  then  V    'I  would 
sty  that  he  was  much  deceived,  Mr.  Archer.'  returned 
Nance.    'I  would  say  that  there  was  a  third  choice,  and 
that  the  right  one.'   It  is  true  that  in  this  case  there  was  no 
•ppaient  fault  behind  the  man  driving  him  to  the  dilemma 
Yet  even  if  there  had  been,  Nance's  was  the  true  answer. 
Life  never  absolutely  commits  any  man  to  crime;  there  is 
always  set  before  every  man  an  open  door. 

Itis  thus  that  Stevenson's  moral  earnestness  is  the  inspira- 
tion  not  of  a  morbid  but  of  a  supremely  healthy  view  of  life 
Tosome  of  hisdetailed  statements  we  may  take  exception  and 
It  18  true  also  that  there  is  another  side  to  all  this  teaching 
without  due  consideration  of  which  it  is  not  without  its' 
dangers.   There  are  depths  of  moral  experience  which  it  has 
never  sounded,  and  the  sick  soul  will  eometimes  touch  bottom 
m  a  despair  far  below  its  range  of  helpfulness.    Yet  still 
hw  doctrine  retains  its  truth  and  value.    It  is  not  a  wise 
though  it  is  only  a  too  common,  principle  of  criticism,  which 
judges  a  man  by  what  he  has  has  left  unsaid.    For  that 
«lence  there  may  be  various  motives,  and  his  experience 
may  have  gone  at  times  too  deep  for  any  attempt  at 
expression.     So  far  as  it  goes,  this  part  of  his  faith  is 
Chnstiau   full  of  a  courage,  a  resoluteness,  and  a  hope 
which  Christ  Himself  approved.    In  some  of  those  to  whom 
He  said.  'Go  and  sin  no  more.'  there  can  have  been  but  a 
very  halting  faith,  so  far  as  intellectual  undei-standing  went 
In  all  of  them  there  was  the  forsaking  of  the  broken  and 
*wted  past,  to  face  the  future  with  that  which  remained 
The  power  to  do  this  certainly  by  in  Him  who  im.pired 

239 


U 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.   BTBTBNSON 

thtm  with  new  oovxtge  and  offered  them  the  new  chance. 
Bat  when  we  see  a  nuui,  obvioiuly  inepired  for  duty,  nn. 
diemayed  by  feilare,  feeing  the  fntoie  as  Stevenion  ever 
fkeed  it  for  himself  and  uiged  his  fellows  to  face  %  may 
we  not  diaoern  behind  the  gallant  flgnie  of  the  hutnan 
combatant  the  fonn  of  the  Son  of  Man  ?  At  least  we  may 
be  sura  of  this,  that  there  are  very  many  persons  whose 
moral  oondition  needs  exactly  this  message.  With  faith 
eonfosed  and  dim,  with  the  irrevocable  past  filling  all  their 
sonls  with  disooaragement,  it  cannot  bnt  be  well  for  them 
to  hear  the  voice  that  calls  to  them  to  hold  fast  that  which 
remains.  If  they  will  take  heart  and  obey,  sooner  or  Uter 
t'ue  Master  will  reveal  Himself  to  them;  for  it  was  Himself 
who  said  that  many  acts  done  strenuously  and  lovingly  by 
those  who  knew  not  that  they  were  serving  Him  would 
{HTOve  at  the  last  to  have  been  done  unto  Him. 


240 


THE  'great  task  OP  HAPPINESS* 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THK  'GREAT   TASK  OF   HAPPINESS.' 

TuK  faith  which  expressed  itself  in  sympathy  aud  appreci- 
stiou,  and  in  manliness  and  health,  led  up  to  one  great 
truth  in  which  it  culminated.  The  duty  of  joy,  the  ethical 
Tslae  of  happiness,  is  par  exedlenee  the  message  of  Sobert 
Louis  Stevenson.  This,  more  than  any  other  ideal,  was  the 
light  of  his  vision,  and  the  inspiration  of  his  travel.  It 
touches  every  part  of  his  experience,  from  physical  pleasures, 
up  through  the  delights  of  intellectual  and  moral  life,  to 
the  most  exalted  spiritual  joys;  and  its  proclamation  is 
the  distinguishing  feature  of  b*r  Tfe-work. 

The  idea  of  enjoyment  cannoc  be  mentioned  in  connection 
with  ethics,  without  at  once  suggesting  the  utilitarian 
doctrine  that  the  end  of  action  is  happiness,  which  thus 
becomes  the  ultimate  motive  and  test  of  conduct  We  must 
hasten  at  the  outset  to  dissociate  Stevenson  from  any  such 
doctrine.  Much  as  he  has  praised  happiness  and  inculcated 
it.  there  is  nothing  further  from  his  faith  than  this,  nor 
anything  which  he  h«s  more  explicitly  disowued.  Fleemiug 
Jenkin  had  said  to  one  v»ho  announced  that  she  would 
never  be  happy  again :  '  What  does  that  signify  ?  We  are 
not  here  to  be  happy,  but  to  be  good.*  Stevenson,  who 
recorded  the  saying,  heartUy  endorsed  it,  correcting  it,  how- 
ever, by  a  significant  addition:  'We  are  not  here  to  be 
l»ppy  but  to  <ry  to  be  good.'  This  sentiment  he  repeate  in 
wme  of  his  most  serious  letters,  and  he  adds  the  further 

Q  241 


^^ 


/ 


THE    FAITH    OF    IL    L.    8TBTBN801I 

assertion  that  happiness  is  not  only  not  the  end  of  our  lifej 
it  is  not  even  oar  deepest  desire.  '  We  are  not  pat  here  toi 
enjoy  ourselves:  it  was  not  God's  purpose;  and  I  ami 
prepared  to  argne,  it  is  not  our  sincMfC  wish.'  '  Men  do  not  \ 
want,  and  I  do  not  think  they  would  aoeqit,  happinew; 
what  they  live  for  is  ri^ry,  effort,  suooess.'  The  relation ; 
of  all  this  to  his  doctrine  of  reward  is  obvious,  and  it  m 
plainly  stated  in  another  letter :  '  Nor  is  happiness,  whether  i 
eternal  or  temporal,  the  reward  that  mankind  seeks.: 
Happinesses  are  but  his  wayside  campings ;  his  soul  is  iu 
the  journey.' 

So  far  Stevenson  is  at  one  with  Carlyle,  and  would  readily  \ 
subscribe  to  the  immortal  words  of  Sartor  Eemirtus :  '  What 
is  this  that,  ever  since  earliest  years,  thou  bast  been  fretting  \ 
and  fuming,  and  lamenting  and  self-tormenting,  on  account 
of  T  Say  it  in  a  word :  is  it  not  because  thou  art  not  H  APPT  ? 
Because  the  Thou  (sweet  gentleman)  is   not  sufficiently 
honoured,  nourished,  soft-bedded,  and  lovingly  cared  for? 
Ti'oolish  soul !    What  Act  of  Legislature  was  there  that  thou 
shouldst  be  Happy?'    But  he  soon  comes  to  a  practical 
dilemma,  at  which  he  parts  f^.<m  Carlyle.    So  far  as  the 
man  himself  is  concerned,  he  can  repudiate  happiness.    '  In 
his  own  life,  then,  a  man  is  not  to  expect  happiness,  only  to 
profit  by  it  gladly  when  it  shall  arise.'   But  where  the  happi- 
ness of  others  is  involved,  the  case  is  different    Stevenson 
feels  that  'somehow  or  other,  though  he  cannot  tell  what 
will  do  it,  he  must  try  to  give  happiness  to  others.    And 
of  course  there  arises  here  a  frequent  clash  of  duties.    How 
far  is  he  to  make  his  neighbour  happy?    How  far  must 
he  respect  that  smiling  face,  so  easy  to  cloud,  so  hard  to 
brighten  again  ? '    And  besides,  if  happiness  be  indeed  no 
right  end  of  conduct  for  oneself,  how  can  it  be  the  proper 
thing  to  aim  at  for  one's  neighbours  ? 
This  is  one  of  the  few  instances  in  which  there  appears  to 
342 


THE    'GRBAT    TASK    OP    HAPPINESS* 

b«  aome  inootuistency  or  at  least  coiifuaion  in  Stevenson's 
thought    He  is  awue  of  the  dilemma,  and  he  escapes  from 
it  not  by  working  out  a  theory,  but  by  committing  himself  to 
a  practical  principle  of  action.    SolvUnr  ambulando;  and 
the  solutici:  is  as  satufactory  as  any  that  the  most  subtle 
logic  could  have  offered.    In  the  Carlylian  mood  he  states 
in  strong  terms  the  opinion  that  happiness  is  by  no  means  a 
certain  accompaniment  of  right  conduct    'Happiness  and 
goodness,  according   to   canting   moralists,  stand  in    the 
relation  of  effisct  and  cause.    There  was  never  anything  less 
proved  or  less  probable:  our  happiness  is  never  in  our  own 
hands;  we  inherit  our  constitution;  we  stand  buffet  among 
friends  and  enemies ;  we  may  be  so  built  as  to  feel  a  sneer 
or  an  aspersion  with  unusual   keenness,  and  so  circum- 
Btanced  as  to  be  unusuaUy  exposed  to  them ;  we  may  have 
nerves  very  sensitive  to  pain,  and  be  afflicted  with  a  disease 
very  painful    Virtue  will  not  help  us,  and  it  is  not  meant 
to  help  us.    It  is  not  even  its  own  reward,  except  for  the  , 
self-centred  and— I  had  almost  said— the  nnamiable.'  Thus 
does  he  cast  aside  the  doctrine  of  the  happiness  of  duty  as  ' 
it  has  been  generally  held.    Happiness,  considered  from  the 
point  of  view  of  ethics,  he  defines  as  nothing  but  an  internal 
harmony— a  harmony  between  our  conduct  and  our  con- 
viction,  whether  the  conduct  be  in  itself  ripht  or  wrong. 

We  might  naturally  expect,  as  the  sequel,  a  final  dis- 
nissal  of  all  considerations  of  happiness  in  the  moral  life. 
Nothing  could  be  further  from  his  mind.  The  doctrine  of 
the  happiness  of  duty  is  only  cast  aside  in  favour  of  the 
less  familiar  one  of  the  duty  of  happiness.  The  theoretical 
perplexities  are  left  to  settle  themselves;  tje  facts  of  life 
present  him  with  the  practical  exit  from  their  coil.  To  a 
aw  of  sympathy  and  strong  human  affection,  the  happiness 
of  those  around  him,  so  far  ae  that  lies  in  his  power,  cannot 
Wl  to  be  imperative.    Accordingly  we  come  at  once  to  the 

243 


n 


I   I 

■  I 

i 


THE     FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8TBYBNS0N 

duty  of  nuking  others  happy,  and  of  being  heppy  ourselves 
that  we  may  be  able  so  to  do.    These  priaoiples  are  stated 
with  his  osnal  abaolateness,  in  epigrams  which,  taken  by 
themselves,  are  sometimes  startling.    'Pleasures  are  moie 
beneficial  than  duties,  because,  like  the  quality  of  mercy, 
they   are   not   strained,   and  they  are   twice   blest. 
/-Wherever  there  is  an  element  of  sacrifice  the  favour  it 
I  conferred  with  pain,  and,  among  generous  people,  received 
\  with  confusion.    There  is  no  duty  we  so  much  underrate  as 
jtbe  duty  of  being  happy.'    •  No  man  was  erer  anything  but 
a  wet  blanket  and  a  cross  to  his  companions,  who  boasted 
not  a  copious  spirit  of  enjoyment'     'A  happy  man  or 
woman  is  a  better  thing  to  find  than  a  five-pound  note. 
S,^  He  or  she  is  a  radiating  focus  of  good- will;  and  their 
Nsntrance  into  a  room  is  as  though  another  candle  had  been 
lighted.' 

Once  canonised  as  a  duty  in  its  own  right,  the  duty  of 
happiness  soon  takes  the  place  of  honour  and  precedence. 
'Gentleness  and  cheerfulness,  these  come  before  all 
morality;  they  are  the  perfect  duties.  ...  If  your  morals 
make  you  dreary,  depend  upon  it  they  are  wrong.'  'Noble 
disappointment,  noble  self-denial,  are  not  to  be  admired,  not 
even  to  be  pardoned,  if  they  bring  bitterness.'  In  a  word, 
we  have  no  right  to  be  gloomy  upon  any  pretext.  The 
poem  in  which  this  sentiment  finds  fullest  expression  is 
The  Cdestied  Surgeon,  in  which  he  contemplates  the  pos- 
sibility of  lapsing  into  a  condition  of  joyless  apathy  and 
sullen  gloom,  and  prays  for  anything  that  may  arouse  him, 
whether  it  be  a  pleasure,  or  a  pain,  or  even  a  killing  sin. 
This  poem  has  been  frequently  quoted  by  writers  who  are 
alive  to  the  spiritual  dangers  of  the  time,  and  it  has 
quickened  not  a  few  whose  spirits  were  flagging.  Although 
to  many  readers  it  is  familiar,  we  copy  it  entire  from 
Underwoods : 
244 


THE  'GREAT  TASK  OP  HAPPINESS* 

'If  I  ban  ftltcnd  mm  or  I«m 
Ib  my  gitftt  tMk  of  happboH ;      — ^ 
If  I  ia,f  moTod  among  my  not 
Aad  thowB  BO  gli»iotu  moraiag  faoe  ; 
If  baams  ttam  bappj  hnmao  ejn 
HaTO  morad  ma  not ;  if  morning  tkiai, 
Book^  and  my  food,  and  tommar  rain 
Kaoekad  on  my  rallan  heart  in  rain  :— 
Lord,  tiiy  moat  pointed  pleaanra  take 
And  atab  my  ipirit  broad  awake ; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdnrata  I, 
Ohooaa  tbon,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piaroing  pain,  a  killing  tin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  mn  them  in.' 

For  that  one  phrase  of  the  fourth  line,  a  'glorious  momiog 
face,'  we  owe  him  much.  It  was  one  which  was  OTideotly 
very  attraotire  to  himself,  for  we  find  it  again  in  one  of  his 
prayers,  in  l%e  Black  Arrow,  and  elsewhere.  Had  he  done 
nothing  else  than  to  set  these  bright  words  in  the  hearts 
of  his  readers,  he  would  have  still  been  a  man  with  a 
message  to  his  generation. 

The  phrase  'duty  of  happiness'  is  rather  suggestive  of 
Itappiness  at  the  sword's  point,  and  there  were  times  when 
it  needed  all  the  determination  and  courage  at  his  command. 
Yet  it  was  reinforced  by  an  abundant  spring  of  natural 
gaiety  and  joy  which  he  preserved  unchanged  from  his 
childhood.    Mr.  Oosse  says  that  gaiety  was  his  cardinal 
quaUty— 'a  childlike  mirth  leaped  and  danced  in  him;  he 
seemed  to  skip  upon  the  hills  of  life.'    Such  continued 
childhood  was  evidently  a  favourite  type  of  character  with 
him.    No  one  who  has  read  his  Memoir  of  Fleeming  Jenkin 
can  ever  forget  the  charming  picture  of  the  last  days  of  the 
Professor's  father,  Captain  Jenkin,  a  chapter  breathing  the 
sweetest  spirit  of  the  child,  and  one  which  could  have  bfen 
written  only  by  a  man  possessed  of  the  rarest  genius  for 
such  work.    The  Captain's  request  for  a  device  to  be  hung 
below  the  trophy  in  his  dining-room  is  significant  of  the 

245 


■ 

1 

1  ' 

I  1 

1 

1 

■<    |!^l 

HI 

^■■^H  ^^Ije  \ 

i  m 

HI 

1^1 

1 11 

#in 

1 11 

1 

THE    FAITH    OF    R.   L.    STBVBNSON 

whole :  '  I  want  yon  to  work  me  Mnnekbing,  Annie.  An 
anchor  tt  each  ride— an  anchor— etandi  for  an  old  mulor 
yon  know— ttanda  for  hope,  yon  know— an  anchor  at  each 
side,  and  in  the  middle  THANKFUL'  Stevenson  must 
surely  have  had  the  Captain  in  his  mind,  when,  in  the  yesr 
following  the  publication  of  the  Memoir,  he  wrote  in  A 
Chfidmiu  Sermon:  'And  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  of  the 
childlike,  of  those  who  are  easy  to  please,  who  love  snd 
who  give  pleasure.  Ifighty  men  of  their  hands,  the  smiten 
and  the  builden  and  the  judges,  have  lived  long  and  done 
sternly  and  yet  preserved  this  lovely  character;  and  among 
our  carpet  interests  and  twopenny  concerns,  the  shame 
were  indelible  if  toe  should  lose  it' 

It  was  in  his  own  childhood  that  he  learned  the  secret  of 
ghulness.  The  glee  of  children  is  partly  a  matter  of 
physical  vitality :  it  is  as  inevitable  as  childhoo<I  itself— 

'  Happy  hearts  and  happy  be**, 
Happy  play  in  gnuay  plaeea— 
That  waa  how,  in  aneient  agea, 
Ohildraa  grew  to  kingi  and  ngei.' 

From  his  earliest  days  he  never  found  it  hard  to '  make  him- 
self cheerful,'  and  his  imagination  tmubformed  the  sick* 
bed  into  'the  pleasant  land  of  counterpane.'  The  same 
exuberance  of  animal  spirits  is  to  be  seen  in  children  even 
more  handicapped  than  he,  as  we  perceive  from  the  won- 
derfully fine  picture  he  has  drawn  of  two  ragged  little 
girls  dancing  barefoot  on  tlie  Edinburgh  paver  rnt  in  the 
teeth  of  an  east  wind.  But  the  secret  of  h  hildlike 
gladnera  was  more  than  animal  spirits.  It  was  m  sense  of 
the  opulence  of  the  world  in  interesting  and  delightful 
objects.  Some  of  his  happiest  verses  are  inspired  by  this 
thought,  especially  those  entitled  A  Thought  an«l  Eapp^ 
Tlumght: 
246 


and 


THI    'GRIAT    TA0K    OF    HAPPIMSSS" 

Tk«  world  k  Adl  of  MMt  ud  driak, 
Witk  Utti*  «kildim  Hjiaf  rmm 
Ib  trwy  OkristiM  Und  of  plae*' ; 


*  Tho  werid  it  M  ftall  of  a  nambor  of  tiaafi, 
I'm  mn  wo  •hoald  aO  bo  m  hoppj  m  kingo.' 


BesidM  his  sense  of  the  opulenee  of  (he  world,  the  child's 
joy  kindles  at  the  thought  of  anything  which  makes  him 
fsel  Us  own  importanoe  and  dgnifioanee  in  it.  The 
[  gladdest  thing  for  a  boy,  is  to  be  made  to  feel  that  he  is  some- 
body and  ooonts  for  something.  This  conviction  is  the  same 
M  that  i.T!.terest  in  himself,  that  sense  of  his  own  personality, 
which  we  have  ahready  found  so  strong  in  Stevenson.  The 
essay  in  which  it  finds  its  most  perfect  expression  is  '  The 
Lantern-bearers,'  in  Aero$a  the  Plaint.  Of  that  essay  Pro- 
fessor James  has  said,  in  one  of  his  Talk$  to  Studmta,  that  it 
deserves  to  become  immortal.  He  quotes  it  at  great  length, 
bat  for  our  present  purpose  the  following  extracts  will  be 
enough  :— 

'Toward  the  end. of  September,  when  school-time  was  draw- 
ing near  and  the  nights  were  already  black,  we  would  begin  to 
ttUy  from  oar  respective  villas,  each  equipped  with  a  tin  bull's- 
eye  lantern.  The  thing  was  so  well  known  that  it  had  worn  a 
rat  in  the  eommeree  of  Great  Britain ;  and  the  grocers,  about 
(he  dne  time,  began  to  garnish  their  windows  with  our  par- 
(icolar  brand  of  luminary.  We  wore  them  buckled  to  the  waist 
npon  a  cricket-belt,  and  over  them,  such  was  the  rigour  of  the 
game,  a  buttoned  top-coat.  They  imelled  noisomely  of 
blistered  tin;  they  never  burned  aright,  though  they  would 
always  bum  our  fingers;  their  use  was  naught;  the  pleasuro  of 
them  merely  fanciful ;  and  yet  a  boy  with  a  bull's-eye  under  bis 
top«oat  asked  for  nothing  more.  .  .  . 

'When  two  of  these  asses  mel,  there  would  be  an  anxious 
'  Have  yon  got  your  lantern  f '  and  a  gratified  '  Yes  I '  That  was 
the  shibboleth,  and  very  needful  too;  for,  as  it  was  the  rule  to 
keep   our  glory  contained,  none  could  recognise  a  lantern- 

247 


It 


THI    FAITH    OF    B.   L.    STITBHBON 

bwr,  nnlMt  (Uk«  iht  polMtl)  bj  tiM  mmU.      Pour  or  fln 
woold  MmttimM  eUmb  bto  lb«  bdlj  of  a  tea-mtn  logger,  witk 
Botiiteg  bat  th«  thwMti  ftboT*  fth«m-for  Um  eabio  wu  uatMUr 
IoM-«r  ehooM  out  mmi«  hollow  of  the  Uaka  whm  the  wind 
might  whirtU  omhMd.    Thtrt  th«  eoati  would  be  anbattoned 
and  tho  boll'e^M  diaeororwi ;  and  in  th«  ehaqoaring  gUmaer 
ondor  tha  huga  windy  haU  of  tha  night,  and  ehaarad  by  a  rich 
■taam  of  toaating  tinwara,  thaM  fortnnata  joang  gentlemen 
wooM  aronch  togathar  in  tha  cold  eand  of  tha  linka  or  on  the 
■aaly  bilgaa  of  tha  flahing-boat.  and  dalight  thamaalTee  with 
inappiopriata  talk.     Woa  ia  ma.  that  I  may  not  gira  eome 
•padnMna-aoBM  of  thair  foraatghu  of  life,  or  daap  inquiries 
into  tha  rodinante  of  man  and  natora,  theea  wara  eo  flery  end 
M  innooant,  thay  wara  ao  riehly  elUy,  eo  romantically  yonnc 
But  tha  talk,  at  any  rata,  waa  bat  a  condiment;  and  theie 
gatharinga  thamealvea   only  accidanta  in  tha   career  of  the 
lantarn-baarar.    Tha  aManca  of  thie  bliea  wae  to  walk  by  yonr- 
•alf  in  tha  bUek  night;  tha  elide  ebut,  tha  to|H»at  buttoned; 
Bot  a  ray  aec^ing,  whethw  to  conduct  your  footetupe  or  to 
make  yoar  glory  public ;  a  mere  pillar  of  darkneee  in  the  dark ; 
and  all  the  while,  deep  down  in  the  privacy  of  yoar  fool's  heart, 
to  know  you  had  a  bnllWye  at  your  bait,  and  to  aznlt  and  sing 
orer  tha  knowledge.  ...  For  to  miee  the  joy  ie  to  miss  all 
>r~ln  the  joy  of  tha  actore  liee  the  eenea  of  any  action.    That  ii 
tha  ezpUnation,  that  the  ezouaa.    To  one  who  has  not  the 
aecret  of  the  lantame,  the  scene  upon  tha  links  ie  meaninglesa.' 

When  he  became  a  man,  there  were  aome  childish  things 

which,  happily  for  himself,  he  did  not  put  away.     The 

glee  of  chUdhood  remained  with  him  as  a  constitutional 

optimiam,  a  natnral  tendency,  like  that  of  his  mother,  to 

look  upon  the  bright  side  of  things.    He  highly  appreciates 

the  sentiment  of  D'Artagnan's  old  servant,  'Jfl)n«««r,;'«a« 

une  de  ee$  honnet  pdta  (fhommit  que  Lieu  a  /aits  pmr 

tfaninur  pendant  un  certain  tempt  et  pour  trouver  bonnes 

toutet  ehotet  qui  aeeompagnent  leur  a^r  eur  la  tent.'    In 

thia  full-grown  optimism  we  perceive  the  development  of  that 

aenae  of  opulence  in  the  world  which  the  child  had  already 

348 


THE  'GREAT  TA8K  OF  HAPPINESS' 

WW  up  hto  d^.  with  u  hour  or  two  of  Aontinir ' 

•wtrnue  to  indnlge.    We  h.T.  dl  met  the  man  who  «y. 
k  .moke.  b«.u..  he  c«i,ot  give  «p  the  prwtice  Tt 
Vtk,««t«.tio«.ly.boutit.evila    If-achhTSlw. 
«.».„t.  Steven^,.,  wo-ld.  like  .„y  other  ..nof^L' 
pn«.plo.  have  given  it  up  t  once.    He  .moked  because  he 

S  '"J^' "'  '•  ""°'«*  '^^'    ^°  the  wide  fidd 
^Nature.  h«  .u««ptibility  to  joy  remained  keen  and 

m^g  throughout    .0  my  beautiful  foreat.'  he  exclaim,  at 
VmIu...  .0  my  beautiful,  shining,  windy  house,  what  a 

^  too  ««oudy  herel-  'Some  veiy  violent  «,ualil 
y  «  we  sat  there,  and  every  one  rejoiced;  U  was 
"jpcible  to  help  it;  a  soul  of  putty  haj  to  ain^'  Tn 
^e«do  .A  rough  amell  of  reein  wa'  in  the  ai^and  ^ 
CTrtal  mountain  purity.  It  came  pouring  over  th^Zen 
o-n  -lope,  by  the  oceanfuL    The  wood'  sang    i::d'::d 

^-  JI.^  7  '^-  "^  '^  ''^^  ''"'»  ''i"  Wt  mine 
2^  There  are  day.  in  a  life  when  thus  to  cUmb  out  of 
»•  lowland.  Menu  like  scaling  heaven.' 

U9 


t 
^\   i 


THl    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    BTBYINBON 

White  hit  ditpotitioii  nad*  happiiMM  Mt«nl  to  him,  the 

V    diettOMtiiiow  of  hl«  lifo  wtra  weh  that  tht  ineliMtion  had 

/(oftm  to  bt  ninforaed  bj  a  Mnit  of  d«t]r.    It  ia  a  mixed 

wwld,  and  tvwn  the  Ughtaat-haartad  will  iad  at  tinea  that  he 

haa  to  naka  a  dalibaiaM  ohoioa  of  tha  Inightar  thingi,  asd 

to  ignore  the  daifcer,  if  hia  heart  ia  to  remain  light    It  ia 

fbr  laok  of  anj  aanae  of  du^  in  the  matter  of  good  spirita 

that  many  natwrally  hi^py  penona  either  end  in  alternating 

hatweoi  high  apviU  and  hopeleaa  gloom,  or  aink  into  a 

^^uptping  diatnut  of  life  and  oeaae  to  be  their  tomtt 

aelrea.    Their  mistake  ia  to  tmat  to  nature  for  everything, 

aomathing  being  alwaya  left  for  will  to  do.  Many  a  roao,  on 

the  other  hand,  gate  little  credit  for  hia  indomiuble  gocd 

cheer,  beeanae  it  is  auppoaed  that  this  is  bnt  his  natnial 

infllin^tJAii     Bat  a  rirtae  is  atill  a  Tirtue,  even  thongh  it 

be  ooBgenial ;  and  thoae  who  have  diligently  kept  their  lamp 

of  joy  alight  are  not  the  least  worthy  of  God's  faithful  ones 

Aa  for  Stevenson,  be  deliberately  drew  upon  and  encouraged 

ell  the  available  sooioea  (tf  gladneaa.    He  carried  with  him 

into  manhood,  not  only  the  glee  that  oomea  from  physical 

vitality,  and  the  senae  of  the  world's  opulence,  but  also 

the  spirit  of  the  Lantern-bearer,  who  carefWly  kept  ahre 

hia  inner  light    His  natural  c^timism  is  unquestionabk, 

but  it  ahould  be  remembered  that  he  needed  it  aU,  and  that, 

if  hia  strenuous  choice  of  it  had  flagged,  pessimiara  would 

not  have  been  fiar  to  seek.    It  is  a  great  and  potent  secret, 

that  of  fostering  our  own  peculiar  enthuaiasm  aa  a  sacred 

flame.    Regard  yourself,  as  you  face  the  simplest  duty  of 

to-morrow,  aa  tending  within  your  soul's  temple  the  fires 

of  God,  and  you  shall  find  the  bright  parable  true.    Both 

theae  sources,  the  outward  and  the  inward,  were  deliberately 

drawn  upon  by  Stevenson. 

This  involves,  first  of  all,  a  deliberate  selection  of  the 
brighter  things  for  attention.     Nothing  could  be  bUthei 
S50 


THl  'ORIAT  TASK  OF  HAPPINIgS' 

tbM  thoM  raddm  giMMM  acroM  the  worid  which,  in  the 
Qkuit*  Oardm  And  ftlaawhcr*.  .how  its  iahabitantt  rajoksiog 
far  and  near: 

'OttptAhd  *gg,  tb«  Midi*  ■tags 

And  BMti  UMMg  iha  trtM ; 
Th«  mUm  liBin  of  npM  and  tbiap 
Ib  diiiw  npoB  tb«  mbs. 

TIm  oUMnb  liBf  ia  fer  Japaa, 

Th«  ehildfta  ■iair  ia  8p«in ; 
Taa  orgaa  with  tb^  otgaa  inaa 

Ii  ■iagiog  ia  tbi'  rain.' 

In  the  character  of  the  French  esproially  he  ;.  delighted 
with  the  'clear  unflinching  recognition  by  everybody  of  his 
own  luck.  They  all  know  on  which  side  their  bread  is 
buttered,  and  tdie  a  pleMure  in  showing  it  to  others,  which 
M  surely  the  better  p»t  of  religion.'  He  compares  the 
Fwoch  Camisards  with  the  Scottish  Covenanters,  and  pre- 
fers the  spirit  of  the  former,  because  they  had  only  bright 
aBd  supporting  visions,  while  the  latter  were  much  in  conflict 
with  the  deril.  and  'though  they  might  be  certain  of  the 
cause,  could  never  rest  confident  of  the  person.' 

Id  every  situation  there  are  pleasant  things  for  a  man  to 
-ttendtoifhr  iU.  'l8awthesea.'hesays,'tobegreat 
and  calm;  and  the  earth,  in  that  little  comer,  was  all  aUve 
Md  friendly  to  me.  So,  wherever  a  man  is.  he  will  find  some- 
thwg  to  please  and  pacify  him :  in  the  town  he  will  meet 
pleasant  faces  of  men  and  women,  and  see  beautiful  flowers 
•J  a  window,  or  hear  a  cage-bird  singing  at  the  comer  of 
the  gloomiest  street ;  and  for  the  country,  there  is  no  country 
without  some  amenity-let  him  only  look  for  it  in  the  right 
spirit,  and  he  will  surely  find  if  So  it  is  in  judging  the 
characters  of  our  feUow  men;  there  is  always  something 
that  IS  lovely  and  of  good  report  in  them.  So  it  is  in  judg- 
Mg  of  one's  own  experience.    If  much  have  gone  from  life, 

361 


It  1 


t 

i    ) 


!    I 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 


H 


there  ia  still  •omething  left  Even  if  the  worst  come  to  the 
wont»  there  it  some  compenssting  element  in  the  very  fact 
that  one  hM  now  at  lest  touched  bottom.  'This  is  life  at 
last,'  he  maj  tell  himself ;  'this  is  the  real  thing.  The 
Uadders  on  which  I  was  set  swimming  are  now  empty ;  my 
own  weight  depends  upon  the  ocean ;  by  my  own  exertions 
I  most  perish  or  sacceed.'  But  the  worst  does  not,  aa  a 
matter  of  fact,  come  to  the  worst  nearly  so  often  as  we  fear, 
eiUier  in  onr  fortunes  or  in  our  character.  '  It  is  a  common- 
place that  we  cannot  answer  for  ourselves  before  we  have 
been  tried.  But  it  is  not  so  common  a  reflection,  and 
surely  more  consoling,  that  we  usually  find  ourselves  a 
great  deal  braver  and  better  than  we  thought' 

But  Stevenson's  deliberate  optimism,  in  which  happiness 
is  a  great  task  as  well  as  a  natural  disposition,  involved 
more  than  selection  of  the  brighter  elements  in  life.  There 
are  for  every  man  seasons  when  no  element  seems  bright,  and 
in  such  dark  timn  the  brightness  has  to  be  created  by  the 
would-be  optimist  Professor  James,  who  has  many  things 
in  common  with  Stevenson,  has  brought  into  prominence 
of  late  a  startling  and  most  suggestive  theory  of  the 
emotions.  It  is  usually  supposed  that  immediately  after 
perceiving  the  exciting  fact  the  emotion  follows,  and 
then,  third  in  the  order  of  time,  the  bodily  expression. 
Thus,  to  use  the  great  psychologist's  own  illnstrations, 
'we  lose  our  fortune,  are  sorry  and  weep;  we  meet  a 
bear,  are  frightened  and  run.'  His  theory  reverses  the 
order  of  the  latter  two  statements,  and  makes  the  bodily 
effect  follow  directly  on  the  perception,  to  be  followed 
in  its  turn  finally  by  the  emotion.  Under  this  view  it 
is  our  weeping  that  causes  sorrow,  our  trembling  and 
running  that  induce  the  emotion  of  fear.  This  is  no 
place  to  discuss  the  theory  upon  its  merits,  or  to  judge  for 
or  against  its  psychological  value  and  suificiency.  Its  claim 
352 


THE  'GREAT  TASK  OP  HAPPINESS ' 

upon  our  atleutiou  here  is  that  it  has  given  the  key  to  a 
)^  namb«  of  «5tual  problems  in  p«ctical  life,  in  which 
bjr  forcing  the  body  into  certain  expressions  we  may  lead 
the  mind  to  follow  suit,  and  so  may.  by  the  help  of  the 
flash,  produce  certain  spiritual  conditions  which  are  other- 
wise  whaUy  beyond  our  reach.    It  is  this  that  lies  at  the 
root  of  much  that  we  have  already  said  of  acting.^    In  the 
present  connection  it  means  that  a  darkened  life  may  often 
be  recaUed  to  a  sense  of  the  brightness  of  the  world  by  a 
deteitmned  effort.    By  deUberate  smiling,  so  to  speak,  we 
my  become  glad ;  and  our  world  will  eventually  respond  to 
our  determined  policy  of  taking  it  as  if  it  were  brighter 
than  for  the  time  it  appears.    By  a  deUberate  pretence  that 
the  world  IS  fairer  than  it  looks,  we  can  see  the  miracle  of 
a  world  actually  becoming  fair  under  our  eyes.    This  is 
Mother  phase  of  that  victory  of  faith  which  overcomes  the 

'J^tifr'^'^V'"  ""^^  ^^  '""'•"^  ''  ^  "•«'"«  the 
-pect  It  desir^    The  secret  was  weU  known  to  Stevenson. 

Not  only  did  he  diligently  seek  out  the  encouraging  and 

nght  aspects  of  experience  as  he  actually  foTd  them. 

J««8  Christ  once  said  to  a  doubting  apostle.  •  Blessed  are 

^  y  that  have  not  seen  and  yet  have  believed.'    Stevenson 

beheved  through  many  an  hour  when  he  had  not  seen,  and 

«o  was  b^ed.    When  all  was  dark,  he  pointed  his  tele-  > 

3«.pe  nght  into  the  blackness,  and  found  a  star.     It  is 

bus  that  faith  may  imitate  the  Master's  work.  caUing 

hmgs  which  are  not  as  though  they  are.  and  find  that  the 

^k  world  has  no  power  to  resis^.  faith's  command  when  it 

boldly  says.  Let  there    be  light      Many  a  happy  fact 

ms^ficant  and  easily  forgotten  amidst  prevailLg  dil' 

u^^es  aud  triab.  he  emphasised  and  isolated,  and  let  his 

though  play  round  it  until  it  had  assumed  such  proportions 

«<  to  domiuate  his  view  of  life,  and  command  the  spirit 

'  Cp.  p.  43. 

S69 


It 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

to  rejoice.  It  is  la  the  light  of  all  this  that  we  must 
remember  his  advoeaoy  of  boastfulneas,  which  is  one  way 
of  making  the  most  of  what  good  a  man  finds  in  his 
situation :  '  If  people  knew  what  an  inspiriting  thing  it  is 
to  hear  a  man  boasting,  so  long  as  he  boasts  of  what  he 
really  has,  I  believe  they  would  do  it  more  fully  and  witli  a 
better  grace.' 

It  is  the  element  of  daty  in  it  that  saves  optimism  from 
being  one  of  the  worst  of  things  and  makes  it  one  of  the 
best.  There  is  a  cheap  and  impertin«it  optimism,  which 
consists  in  not  looking  at  the  facts  of  life,  but  nursing  a 
pleasant  mood  without  reference  to  them.  From  this 
Stevenson  was  singularly  free.  He  prayed  to  be  delivei-ed 
from  all  cheap  pleasures,  and  refused  to  cheat  himself  into 
any  blindfold  light-heartedness.  He  found  some  good  things 
actually  there,  and  concentrated  on  them — a  very  different 
matter  from  the  brainless  optimism  of  the  blindfolded.  His 
action,  when  no  good  could  be  seen,  was  founded  upon  a 
faith  that  in  the  depths 

*This  world's  do  blot  for  u», 
Nor  bUnk ;  it  mMiii  inteiuely  and  means  good' 

a  faith  which  he  found  experience  abundantly  to  confirm. 

It  is  one  thing  to  live  in  a  fool's  paradise  of  our  own 
imagining;  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to  trust  life  and  to 
find  it  reveal  its  trustworthiness  in  return  for  the  venture 
of  faith.  Whether  optimism  shall  be  mere  vanity,  or 
whether  it  shall  be  the  discovery  of  God,  depends  almost 
wholly  upon  how  much  it  is  cherished  on  the  one  hand  as 
a  form  of  selfishness,  or  on  the  other  as  a  matter  of  dutj. 
He  believed  in  life  because  he  found  that  only  in  that 
belief  could  a  man  be  true  to  himself  and  serviceable  to 
others.  And  liie  justified  his  faith,  for  to  the  strenuous 
and  the  unselfish  it  is  always  true  that '  experience  worketh 
hope,  and  hope  maketh  not  ashamed.' 
264 


THE    'GREAT    TASK    OF    HAPPINESS' 

Such  were  hi.  principle.,  and  if  the  quertion  be  uked 
how  far  he  realiaed  them  in  actual  life.  then,  need  be  no' 
fear  a.  to  the  answer.  He  wa..  indeed,  a  man  of  many 
mood.,  and  it  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  hold  him  dowi 
to  any  one  of  th«>.  He  wa.  also  a  man  whose  phy«cal 
haalth  w«i  .nch  «i  to  render  it  almost  impossible  for  him 
to  maintain  an  unbroken  cheerfulnes..  In  the  latter  yeasa. 
when  l^lth  seemed  in  an  unhop«i.for  degree  to  have  been 
witored,  the  complications  and  responsibilities  of  his  life 
were  such  as  to  render  peace  an  impossibUity  and  gladness 

M  health  before  them,  when  h.  wm  -far  thwugh,'  theii 
come  confe«xons  of  gloom  and  even  protwits  against  circum- 
stances  such  as  any  reasonable  onlooker  would  expeei    It 
would  be  quite  possible,  and  yet  it  would  be  entirely  mis- 
tasdmg.  to  gather  from  such  passages  the  impression  of  a 
deepening  pessimism.    They  certainly  forbid  us  to  think  of 
him  as  a  thoughtless  or  feather-brained  optimist,  but  their 
pwwnce  beside  the  courageous  belief  in  life,  and  the  cheer 
fulness  and  enjoyment  which  alternate  with  them  even  at 
fte  worst,  only  serves  to  give  the  impre«rion  of  a  sober 
«d  cha-tened  joy.  and  to  keep  his  happiness  from  frivolity 
Under  the  burden  of  ill-health  or  overwork,  hi.  cheerful- 
ness does  occasionally  give  way.    He  speaks  of  having  known 
wl«t  It  was  to  be  happy  once,  long  ago.  at  Hy6res.  while 
now  he  knows  only  pleasures,  plentiful,  indeed,  but  none 
of  them  perfect.    Again  he  tolls  us  that  he  is  gay  no  longer 
Hu  literary  work  becomes  painful  and  burdensome.    He  is 
not  strong  enough  to  do  his  best,  and  work  tires  him,  «, 
thst  when  it  is  done  he  does  not  know  whether  it  is  cood 
or  not.  or  is  positively  disappointed  with  it    In  such  hour, 
of  depiession  a  constitutional  distrust  of  the  future  possewes 
Kmspkeof  the  hopefulness  he  had  inherited  from  hi. 
•nother.    He  will  never  write  well  again,  he  fears.    He 

266 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNgON 

views  the  futoM  m  a  heavy  tMk  from  which  all  zest  and 
interest  have  departed.  He  thinks  hf>  has  lost  his  chaace 
by  not  dying  sooner.  Within  a  few  months  of  the  end  he 
fears  that  there  is  no  hope  of  his  dying  soon  and  cleaulj, 
and  'winning  ofT  the  stage.'  He  will  'have  to  see  this 
business  out,  after  all'  This  sense  that  he  had  outlived  his 
life  was  the  saddest  point  he  reached.  The  quality  of  the 
work  he  was  doing  at  the  time  entirely  belied  it;  but  some- 
times his  life  ran  too  low  to  allow  him  to  appreciate  the  joy 
of  that  labour  which  had  reached  as  near  perfection  as  it  is 
almost  ever  given  to  man  to  reach.  W«%r  of  Htrmidon  was 
written  after  he  had  penned  these  lines : 

'  I  hare  trod  tha  upward  and  the  downward  slope ; 

I  have  eadured  and  done  in  days  before ; 
I  have  louged  for  all,  and  bid  &rewell  to  hope ; 
And  I  have  lived,  and  loTed,  and  cloeed  the  door.' 

It  is  but  just  to  record  these  depressions  and  misgivings, 
for  we  desire  to  know  the  man  as  he  was,  and  it  may  he 
that  they  bring  him  nearer  to  some  of  us  than  any  unbroken 
record  of  good  spirits  could  have  brought  him.  Without 
them,  the  victory  might  have  seemed  so  complete  as  to  be 
unhelpful  to  those— and  they  are  the  most  of  men— who 
cannot  be  always  shouting  for  joy. 

Yet,  even  in  the  darkest  times,  the  victory  was  wouder- 
fully  near  completeness.  He  had  many  varieties  of  glad- 
some moods  with  which  to  confront  the  forms  of  darkness 
in  his  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  There  is  no  need  for  us  to 
labour  at  the  distinction  between  what  is  called  happiness 
nud  what  may  be  better  designated  as  joy,  or  at  any  other 
definitions  of  a  similar  kind.  Such  distinctions  are  never 
exact,  and  then  he  knew  all  the  phases  without  analysing 
them,  so  that  we  may  be  pretty  safe  in  assigning  to  him 
whatever  phase  of  gladness  appeals  to  us.  Koughly  speak- 
ing, it  may  be  said  that  in  him  wt  see  (1)  natural  gaiety 
256 


IHB    'o»BAT    TASK    OF    HAPPIMBS' 

Jfctog  mud.  UppiM.,  „d  (»  th.t  l-ppiMa  ,rttli»e 
Jo™  .K».  a.  life  to  „  ,p«,^  ,4.,^»        "^ 

■troog  jojfolnen  of  soul.  *^ 

i^bon  from  the  gloom.    The  twinkle  of  humour  that 

!^^^i.^  •^•'^  '*^*'  «'  «»•  «t»ct.  we  have 

the  iMt  end  there  are  p.«.ge.  in  many  of  thcTw^.^ 
oonucdity«irre«.Uble.  Bemembering  how  harf  J^J 
t  Zd  pT'^  '"::^~'  "'^  ^  "  8^^  ^-  ^^ 

whetter  ymtors  or  mmate..  he  reuiained  ft.  impe»onation 
of  We  and  spirit,  maintdning  to  the  last  the  «nVZ«Z 
giiely  «  ever,  the  same  happy  eageme«i  in  aU  pMito 
ttd  interests;  and  fulfilling  without  failure  the  wi^of 
kM  own  prayer.  "Give  us  to  awake  with  smile..  ~  «  to 
Isbour  smiling;  as  the  sun  lightens  the  world,  ilet  our 

SjS^t'fr''  '"«''*'"  house  of  our  habitation.- 
In  the  thick  of  the  political  fight  which  brought  with  it  so 

^ved  hfe  than  I.  And  stUl  it's  good  fun.'  In  such 
u^nmces  there  is  doubtless  a  certain  element  of  defia^e 
wd  their  gaiety  is  a  little  forced,  reminding  us  of  that  hero' 
of  our  younger  days  who 

*^^y^  *  "P"^  "**  «■*"<**  it  ronnd 
Beneath  the  gallows-tree.' 

la  one  morning  prayer  there  are  two  petitions  for  laughter 
^  may  help  m  the  performance  of  'the  petty  rouml  of 
mitating  concerns  and  duties.'  Yet  the  buoyant  gaiety  did 
not  need  much  forcing.    It  was  part  of  his  natu^  and  if 

*  267 


r 


I 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    gTBVBNSON 

Bonu'a  p*thetio  wordi  might  well  hvn  htm  applied  to  him, 
'Wetena  my  heart  lioht  I  wad  dee,'  it  ia  oomoling  to 
remember  that  his  heart  was  indeed  light  enough  to  cany 
him  through  the  trials  of  his  life.  When  all  else  died  down 
within  him  and  his  life  ran  low;  when  hope  had  lost  its 
glamour  and  even  courage  itself  seemed  to  be  shaken ;  the 
steained  and  doubtful  situation  is  relieved  by  a  burst  of 
ringing  laughter,  and  when  that  subsides  we  find  the  air 
clear  again.  '"Be  sure  we'll  have  some  pleisand  weather, 
When  a'  the  clouds  has  blawn  awa'."  Verses  that  have  a 
quite  inexplicable  attraction  for  me,  and  I  believe  had  for 
Bums.  They  have  no  merits  but  are  somehow  good.  I  am 
now  in  a  most  excellent  humour.' 

2.  Mr.  Chesterton  has  said  that '  the  supreme  and  splendid 
characteristic  of  Stevenson  was  his  levity ;  and  his  levity 
was  the  flower  of  a  hundred  grave  philosophies.  The  strong 
man  is  always  light:  the  weak  man  is  always  heavy.  .  . . 
His  triumph  was,  not  that  he  went  through  his  misfortunes 
without  becoming  a  cynic  or  a  poltroon,  but  that  he  went 
through  his  misfortunes  and  emerged  quite  exceptionally 
cheerful  and  reasonable  and  courteous,  quite  exceptionally 
light-hearted  and  liberal-minded.  .  .  .  Stevenson  was  char- 
acterised by  a  certain  airy  wisdom,  a  certain  light  and  cool 
rationality,  which  is  very  rare  and  very  difficult  indeed  to 
those  who  are  greatly  thwarted  or  tormented  in  life.  ...  It 
may  not  be  impossible  or  even  unusual  for  a  man  to  lie  on 
his  back  on  a  sick-bed  in  a  dark  room  and  be  en  optimist 
But  it  is  very  unusual  indeed  for  a  man  to  lie  on  his  back 
on  a  sick-bed  in  a  dark  room  and  be  a  reasonable  optimist: 
and  that  is  what  Stevenson,  almost  alone  of  modern  opti- 
mists, succeeded  in  being.' 

These  are  words  of  rare  insight  and  analysis,  perhaps 
as  near  the  mark  as  anything  that  has  been  sud  about  him. 
Nothing  could  be  more  exact  than  that '  levity  of  the  strong 


p- 


im    'OBBAT    TASK    Of    HAPWMISS' 

^^ "i!^ •«»« Ticto,, om  life. .rt  iu «cito.«u^ 
mth  ««p „  e.gu..  bM  ««. «„ta.  the  l«d«  ua3 
Witt  .U  the  «„Mhli«  of  Pw,id«,^  with  .n  th. 

ftV  b.™  ^dmUKrf  i^  ^  fo^j  i.  „„^^  But  th^^ 
«»»  wh,  «c.pt  it  «U7  in  th«  «.«  of  Uki^  ^ilt^^ 
«th  .U«.t  tongue  „d  h.MH«t  t«,th.  StTn...  no^r; 
didaot  pnmw,;  h,  .b.  .pp„oi.l«l  ,0  it.  fnUthoinw! 
IWU.  .nd  kindly  danttnt.  i„  the  my,l«y  „f  «,!„  "    gi^v 

•hUe  b,fo«.  p^el  p^ag.  ee.  be  Zi,t.n  L  th,  fonZ 

•g.  in  which  Mr.  GnUuun  Blfon,  tell.  ft.  .^rT  0 (To 

lUneM  in  the  Kivier.  in  1884 :_  ^       " 

«.or.  p.b,  „  he  ,„  lulftriirS^Z™      T^  ^  "" 

859 


rfs.! 


THB    FAITH    0»    B.   L.    BTIVIHBOK 

in  Mat*  RiffwiBg,  he  WM  itill  tbmrj  and  imdMuited.  Whra 
tiw  ftt4ii'»'>'">«*  b*gui  Mid  the  doetor  int  umooiMcd  hit 
^Uff>'>^  Mn.  StoTwiMii  felt  that  it  wm  more  than  any  one 
wmld  bo  espoctod  to  boar,  and  wnt  into  anotbor  room,  and 
thoro,  in  her  own  phraoo,  "sat  and  gloomod."  Loois  rang  hia 
boU  and  sho  went  to  him,  aaying,  in  the  bittemoM  of  her  spirit, 
•■  the  entered  the  room:  "Well,  I  eoppoee  that  thie  ii  the 
mj  beet  thing  that  eonld  hare  happonedl"  "Why,  how 
odd!"  wrote  Louie  on  a  piece  of  paper,  "I  wae  jnet  going  to 
«y  tboeeyeiy  wwrde."' 

S.  It  is  one  thing  to  announce,  in  loud  and  oft-repeated 
iMcrfeione,  that  one's  experience  of  life  is  all  very  good;  it 
is  ani^er  thing  actually  to  rejoice  in  life.  Without  involv- 
ing ourselves  in  any  intricate  analysis,  it  may  be  asserted 
that  while  happiness  is  possible  upon  less  exacting  terms, 
true  joyfulness  is  possible  only  to  those  who  have  accepted 
it  as  a  duty.  The  joyfulness  of  Stevenson  was  no  surface 
optimism;  it  lay  rich  and  deep  beneath  the  gaiety  and  the 
contentment  alike.  He  was  not  content  either  to  laugh 
through  his  life,  or  merely  to  tolerate  it;  he  enjoyed  it 
This  is  obvious  in  the  feelings  with  which  he  regarded  his 
art  Like  all  art,  it  had  to  be  learned  painfully;  yet  be 
found  that '  No  other  business  offers  a  man  his  daily  bread 
upon  such  joyful  terms.'  He  frankly  asserts  the  highest 
function  of  Art  to  be  the  diffusion  of  joy.  '  In  my  view, 
one  dank,  dispirited  word  is  harmful,  a  crime  of  lite 
humaniU,  a  piece  of  acquired  evil;  every  gay,  every  bright 
word  or  picture,  like  every  pleasant  air  of  music,  is  a  piece 
of  pleasure  set  afloat;  the  reader  catches  it,  and  if  he  be 
healthy,  goes  on  his  way  rejoicing ;  and  it  is  the  business  of 
Art  so  to  send  him,  as  often  as  possible."  Yet  that  can 
only  be  true  of  Art  if  it  be  in  the  first  place  true  of  Life 
itselt  If  Life,  at  the  heart  of  it,  is  joyless,  the  joy  of  Art  is 
but  a  pleasant  Ue.  Stevenson,  like  all  wise  artists,  had  gone 
deeper  than  Art  for  the  foundatiom  of  his  joy.  He  was 
860 


THB  'ORBAT  TASK  OP  HAPPINBBS' 

'omtlMt  dtUgfated  in  lif e.' ud  who  wu  aUt  to  dug  from 
uhonotthMit: 


'  I  kMw  not  h«w  it  is  witk  joo^ 

/loTtthcAnta^lMt, 
Th«  wkol*  Add  of  th«  pfwmt 
Tkt  viMd*  fl«w  of  Um  pMi' 

We  have  now  aniTod  at  a  point  from  which  it  ia  but  a 
■tep  to  religions  foith.    In  a  letter  which  we  have  alrewly 
quoted,  Stevenson  expressly  rejects  Optimisni  in  favour  of 
Faith.    Hia  words  are:   'There  are  only  three  possible 
attitudes— Optimism,  which  has  gone  to  smash;  Pessimism, 
which  is  on  the  rising  hand,  and  very  popular  with  many 
clergymen  who  seem  to  think  they  are  Christians;  and 
this  Faith,  which  is  the  Gospel'    This  distinction  between 
optimittn  and  faith  he  insists  upon  at  greater  length  in 
Virgimbiu  Fum$pu,  optimism  appearing  under  the  name 
of  Hope.    'Hope,  they  say,  deserts  us  at  no  period  of  our 
existence.    Prom  fiat  to  last,  and  in  the  face  of  smarting 
diaUlusions,  we  oontinBe  to  expect  good  fortune,  better 
health,  and  better  conduct;  and  that  so  confidently,  that  we 
judge  it  needless  to  deserve  them.'    Later  on,  however,  we 
read  that  'Hope  is  the  boy,  a  blind,  headlong,  pleasant 
feUow,  good  to  chase  swallows  with  the  salt ;  Faith  is  the 
grave,   experienced,   yet   smiling  man.     Hope   lives   on 
ignorance;  open-eyed  Faith  ia  buUt  upon  a  knowledge  of 
our  life,  of  the  tyraimy  of  circumstance,  and  the  frailty  of 
human  resolution.    Hope  looks  for  unqualified  success ;  bnt 
»»ith  counts  certainly  on  faUure,  and  takes  honourable 
(iefeat  to  be  a  form  of  victory.    Hope  is  a  kind  old  pagan ; 
but  Faith  grew  up  in  Christian  days,  and  early  learnt 
humiUty.    In  the  one  temper,  a  man  is  iad%nant  that  he 
cannot  spring  up  in  a  dap  to  heights  of  elegance  and 
»»tne;  in  the  other,  oat  of  a  sense  of  his  ii^rmities,  he  is 

261 


IM 


ii 


4 1 


\f- 


lh^~     'i  P^  'i'.-^^.  -•'-■  .«^j»4^>' *- tSV- 1 


THB   FAITH    OF    B.    L.   8TBYBN80M 


illed  wMi  oonfidinet  Womim  a  jux  him  oobm  aad  gone, 
ft&d  ht  hM  (rtill  pitMrrvd  lom*  ngt  of  honow/ 

With  his  dateription  of  ftith  w«  1»t«  no  qmml,  nor  yet 
with  fcho  high  pUo«  he  aatignt  it  la  hif  own  \<orda, 
'whether  on  the  first  of  Jeniuuy  or  tlie  thirty-first  of 
December,  fkith  is  a  good  word  to  end  on.'  Bat  hie  concep- 
tion of  hope,  and  his  consequent  depreciation  of  optiBiim, 
do  not  appear  to  be  eqnallj  warranted.  When  he  speaks 
of  hope,  is  he  not  thinking  of  Prometheoa,  and  really  mean, 
ing  blind  hopee  f  There  is  a  kind  of  hope  which  is  founded 
on  faith,  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  which  is  but  a  higher  and 
bolder  exercise  of  faith,  so  that  optimism  itself  is  in  a  sense 
identical  with  faitii,  and  is  but  a  fully  doTeloped  belief  in 
life.  It  must  be  this,  indeed,  if  it  is  to  be  hdd  worthy  of 
any  serious  consideration ;  for  no  sane  man,  judging  by  the 
present  appearance  of  things  ^wrt  from  faith,  would  say 
that  the  world  is  even  passable.  The  only  possible  optimism 
which  is  without  faith  is  that  which  shuts  its  eyes  to  the 
suffering  and  failure  that  it  may  selfishly  enjoy  the  rest— 
a  coarse  which  mast  in  all  cases  be  immoral. 

In  a  word,  what  Stevenson  called  faith  is  the  only 
worthy  optimism,  and  we  are  justified,  in  spite  of  his  own 
disclaimer,  in  applying  the  word  optimist  to  him  after  all 
Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  that  faith  of  his,  as  it  ii 
expressed,  let  us  say,  in  Pulvit  et  Umbra.  Unfortun- 
ately quotation  is  almost  useless,  for  the  exposition  most 
be  taken  as  a  whole,  and  indeed,  it  must  be  taken  in 
connection  with  other  essays,  so  that  no  fragment  could 
justly  convey  his  view.  It  is  a  description  of  the  world,  of 
physical  life  in  brute  and  man,  and  of  man  himself  with  hit 
moral  and  spiritual  strivings.  The  writer  stands  off  from 
the  'rotatory  island'  of  earth,  and  seer,  %,  humid  and  fertile, 
groaning  and  travailing  through  a.l  i'.:^  substance  with  the 
myriad  birth  of  life.  The  realism  is  crude  and,  in  parta, 
362 


THl  'ORIAT  TASK  OF  HAPPINBSS' 

lattotioMlIjr  di«giiitiiig:  (he  wintkmioed  imagiiMtion  it 
pat  fortli  with  a  pow«r  Md  a  daring  at  which  w«  atand 
•ghaat  a*  we  nad.  Tat,  aa  it  tnrat  <mt»  all  thia  is  bat  the 
teriito  baekgnmnd  againit  which  man's  ooorage.  the  in- 
alimaUe  remnant  of  hie  honour,  the  unquenchable  ardour 
of  hie  etraggk  after  noblenees,  etand  oat  in  deeperate  relief. 
Nothing  could  be  more  tragic  than  raeh  a  pietnie,  and  from 
one  point  of  Tiew  nothing  could  be  more  exact.  If  thia 
writer  be  an  optimiat,  certainly  he  haa  faced  facts  which 
might  make  men  peasimiato  on  a  far  lew  candid  and  un- 
flinching view  of  them.  Tet  the  practical  outcome  of  the 
eaaay  ia  not  courage  only  but  joyfulneaa;  not  a  forced  accept- 
snoe  of  the  ineritable,  but  a  whole-hearted  aoquieaoence  in 
the  aitnation,  and  a  glad  belief  in  life.  '  In  the  hanh  face 
of  life,'  he  telle  ue, '  fauth  can  read  a  bradng  goepeL' 

In  auch  a  caae  the  real  queetion  ia  one  aa  to  the  ultimate 
facta.  Bo  these  facta,  hidden  in  ao  tragic  a  darkneaa,  cor- 
respond with  the  man's  faithfulness,  or  with  the  pitiless  and 
consdenceleee  play  of  natural  forces  t  In  a  word,  Does 
the  unirerse  back  him,  or  does  it  not  ?  Now  it  is  quite 
true  that  Sterenson  is  not  given  to  concerning  himself  much 
with  theories  about  the  ultimate  facts.  Faith,  with  him, 
is  a  practical  affair,  concerned  with  the  immediate  demands 
that  life  makes  upon  a  man.  Tet  let  us  be  plain  here. 
Without  the  conviction  that  the  universe  backs  his  faith, 
that  his  attitude  corresponds  with  the  ultimate  facts,  such 
faith  as  his,  and  the  joyf ulness  it  produces,  are  mere  folly 
and  dishonesty.  Various  courses  are  open  to  a  man  who 
holds  no  such  conviction,  but  this  course  is  not  open  to 
him.  He  may  reasonably  adopt  the  darker  view,  and  settle 
down  in  an  embittered  pessimism ;  or  he  may  be  agnostic, 
and  take  what  comes,  with  courage  but  without  enthusiasm ; 
but  joyfulness  or  faith  in  life  are  not  for  him.  He 
who  retains  even  a  joylees  belief  in  life,  can  do  so  only 


i>f 


MtdOGorv  mouinoN  tbt  omit 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHAUT  No.  2) 


1.0 


■a  ■2.8 

■  2J 

m  . 

■M 

itt  1^ 

12.2 

u   1^ 

!!■ 

S   L£ 

|2.0 

u 

B^^^H 

u.  . 

BUI. 

1 

11.8 

Ii25  nu 


is  li 


1.6 


A 


d    /APPLIED  IIS/HGE    In 


les]  Eatt  Main  StrMt 

ftochyiltf.  Nm  York        14609       USA 

<7I6)  482  -  0300  -  Ption. 

(711)  288  -  s«e*  -  m 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEVENSON 

in  the  manner  of  Ixion,  appealing  against  that  Jove 
whom  men  call  Providence  (who  is  the  ultimate  fact  to 
most  men)  to  some  unknown  higher  power.  He  who 
believes  and  rejoices  can  do  so  only  in  the  strength  of  a 
conviction  that  he  positively  knows  the  universe  to  mean 
well  by  him,  no  matter  how  unintelligible  his  actual  ex- 
perience may  be. 

Such  was  Dante's  conviction,  when  he  penned  the  inscrip- 
tion for  the  Gate  of  the  Inferno.  Such  was  Francis 
Thompson's  when  he  wrote  the  lines : 

•  YeiS  and  God's  mercy,  I  do  think  it  well, 
Ii  flashed  back  from  the  Inasen  gates  of  hell.' 

Such,  beyond  all  possibility  of  question,  was  Stevenson's 
conviction.    In  a  playful  mood  he  writes  to  Austin  Strong 
a  long  account  of  the  exorcism  of  an  evil  spirit  by  an  old 
woman  who  had  frightened  the  natives  of  Vailima  by  her 
ventriloquism.    '  All  the  old  women  in  the  world  might 
talk  with  their  mouths  shut,  and  not  frighten  you  or  me, 
but  there  are  plenty  of  other  things  that  frighten  us  badly. 
And  if  we  only  knew  about  them,  perhaps  we  should  find 
them  no  more  worthy  to  be  feared  than  an  old  woman 
talking  with  her  mouth  shut.    And  the  names  of  some  of 
these  things  are  Death,  and  Pain,  and  Sorrow.'    So  much 
for  his  estimate  of  those  haggard  aspects  of  life  which  he 
has  so  uncompromisingly  depicted  at  their  most  formidable. 
But  there  is  clearer  evidence  that  his  optimism  was  founded 
on  a  faith  that  the  ultimate  facts  were  with  him.    From 
the  thick  of  the  fight  in  Samoa,  little  more  than  a  year 
before  his  death,  he  writes  to  Professor  Colvin:  'The  in- 
herent tragedy  of  things  works  itself  out  from  white  to 
black  and  blacker;  and  the  poor  things  of  a  day  look  rue- 
fully on.    Does  it  shake  my  cast-iron  faith  ?    I  cannot  say 
that  it  does.    I  believe  in  an  ultimate  decency  of  things; 
264 


THE    'GREAT    TASK    OP    HAPPINESS* 

»y,  and  if  I  woke  in  hell,  should  still  believe  it!'  That 
evidence  may  be  accepted  as  final.  It  is  the  faith  of  one 
who  has  found  himself  able 

'  To  feel,  in  the  ink  of  the  ilou^ 
And  the  sink  of  the  miro. 
Veins  of  glory  and  fire 
Bun  throuj^  and  transpierce  and  transpire, 
And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  in  every  part, 
And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart.' 

There  is  no  need,  however,  for  one  who  writes  of  Steven- 
son to  confine  himself  to  such  vague  and  general  formula 
as  those  with  which  we  have  just  been  working.    He  him- 
self relates  his  optimism  most  frankly  to  the  belief  in  Ood, 
leading  back  his  life  to  Him  in  thankfulness  and  prayer! 
When  a  man  prays  for  cheerfulness  and  laughter,  we  may 
take  it  that  he  regards  his  brightness  to  be  in  accordance  with 
the  mind  of  God  for  men.    In  the  height  of  his  good  spirits 
he  shouts  aloud.  'Thank  (Jod  for  the  grass,  and  the  fir-trees, 
and  the  crows,  and  the  sheep,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  fir-trees ';  or  he  writes  that '  all  the  way  along 
I  was  thanking  God  that  He  had  made  me  and  the  birds  and 
everything  just  as  they  are  and  not  otherwisa*    A  recent 
preacher  has  asserted  that  the  fundamental  thing  in  life  is 
not  to  do  good,  not  even  to  be  good,  but  to  believe  that  God 
18  good.    There  are  indeed  some,  for  whom  in  the  meantime 
the  goodness  of  God  is  obscured  by  sorrows  or  by  doubts, 
and  with  them  the  order  is  reversed.    Their  stress  must  lie 
on  being  and  doing,  and  the  power  to  believe  wUl  ultimately 
reward  them.    But  Stevenson's  faith  is  of  the  kind  which 
the  preacher's  words  describe.    His  belief  in  God  was  so  far 
removed  from  any  reasoned  metaphysical  conclusion,  that 
we  have  described  it  as  the  highest  form  of  a  spirituality 
which  belongs  rather  to  the  Eeligion  of  Sentiment  than 
to  the  Eeligion  of  Dogma.    Yet  that  instinctive  belief  was 
none  the  less  a  part  of  real  knowledge.    It  is  because,  in  the 

265 


! 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBYBNSON 

depths,  he  is  sate  (hat  Qoi  is  good,  that  he  is  able  to  face 
the  life  of  action  and  of  character  strenuously.  Indeed,  the 
thought  of  Qod  is  for  him  so  identified  with  hope  and 
brightness,  that  when  he  hears  tiie  Miaerere  performed  in 
Noyon  Cathedral,  he  is  constrained  to  say  that  he  takes  it  to 
be  the  work  of  an  atheist  '  I  could  bear  a  Miaerere  myself,' 
he  goes  on,  'having  had  a  good  deal  of  open-air  exercise  of 
late ;  but  I  wished  the  old  people  somewhere  else.  It  was 
neither  the  right  sort  of  music  nor  the  right  sort  of  divinity 
for  men  and  women  who  had  come  through  most  kind  of 
accidents  by  this  time,  and  probably  have  an  opinion  of 
their  own  upon  the  tragic  element  in  life.  A  person  up  in 
years  can  generally  do  his  own  Miserere  for  himself; 
although  I  notice  that  such  an  one  often  prefers  Jubilate 
DeO  for  his  ordinary  singing.'  lu  several  places  he  re'' .rs 
to  the  ..newer  which  the  Scottish  Catechism  gives  to  its  fin; 
question,  'What  is  the  chief  end  of  man?'  The  answer 
is, '  Man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify  God  and  to  enjoy  Him  for 
ever.'  It  was  an  answer  which  went  to  the  heart  of 
Stevenson's  philosophy  of  life,  for  it  linked  on  the  rejoicing 
man  with  the  Eternal  Qod.  It  is  only  those  whose  faith 
finds  its  chief  end  in  Qod,  who  may  know  the  secret  of  joy 
as  he  knew  it 

One  of  the  finest  incidents  recoided  in  that '  tall  quarto  of 
533  pages '  in  which  Bobert  Stevenson  told  the  story  of  his 
operations  at  the  Bell  Bock  Lighthouse,  may  here  be  nar^t«d 
as  it  is  given  in  A  Family  of  Engineen.  A  great  stor  A 
broken  upon  the  rock  and  the  ship  Pharos  riding  at  her 
anchor  beside  it  on  September  6, 1807.  All  the  following 
day  it  raged  with  unabated  violence,  now  threatening  to  tear 
her  from  her  moorings,  now  to  overwhelm  and  break  her  to 
pieces  as  she  rode.  After  twentyHseven  hours  of  what 
to  the  landsman  seemed  imminent  peril,  he  made  the  best  of 
his  way  aft  and  saw  the  tremendous  spectacle  of  the  waves. 
266 


THE  'GREAT  TASK  OF  HAPPINESS* 

•  On  deck  there  was  only  one  solitary  individual  looking  out, 
to  give  the  alarm  in  the  event  of  the  ship  breaking  from  her 
moorings  ...  and  he  stood  aft  the  foremast,  to  which  he 
had  lashed  himself  with  a  gasket  or  small  rope  round  his 
waist,  to  prevent  his  falling  upon  deck  or  being  washed  over- 
board.  When  the  writer  looked  ap,  he  appeared  to  smile.' 
The  writer  goes  on  to  record  that  he  had  been  much  relieved 
by  that '  smile  of  the  watch  on  deck,  though  literally  lashed 
to  the  foremast  From  this  time  he  felt  himself  almost 
perfectly  at  ease;  at  any  rate  he  was  entirely  resigned  to 
the  ultimate  result'  We  offer  no  apology  for  telling  the 
story  as  a  very  perfect  aUegory  of  the  grandson's  faith. 
His  storm  also  was  long  and  affrighting,  and  he  was  not 
only  'entirely  resigned  to  the  ultimate  result,' but  indeed 
'almost  perfectly  at  his  ease.'  The  reason  was  that  ae  too, 
looking  out,  had  seen  a  smile  upon  a  certain  Face. 

'  Well  roan  the  ttorni  to  those  that  hear 
A  deeper  voice  acroas  the  atorm.' 


I 


III 


'•  i 


il  , 


S67 


THB    FAITH    OF    R.    L.   STBVBNSOM 


CHAPTER   XIV 


STEVENSON   AND   HIS  TIMES 

In  his  great  essay  on  Self-reliance  Emerson  has  written, 

•Trust  thyself!    Every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string. 

Accept  the  place  the  Divine  Providence  has  found  for  you, 

the  society  of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection  of  events. 

Great  men  have  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves 

childlike  to  the  genius  of  their  age.' 
The  words  are  no  less  wise  than  they  are  exhilarating. 

He  does  not,  of  course,  counsel  us  to  allow  ourselves  to  be 
tossed  about  with  every  new  wind  of  doctrine ;  nor  to  take 
for  permanent  truth,  or  even  for  truth  at  all,  the  vagaries  of 
the  Zeitgeist.    Great  men  have  very  frequently  shown  their 
greatness  by  resisting  rather  than  by  following  such  passing 
fashions.    But  in  a  deeper  sense  there  is  in  every  time  a 
Spirit  of  the  Age,  the  creation  of  its  needs  and  its  aspirations, 
which  sets  the  tone  of  its  thought  and  points  the  direction 
of  its  activities.    Evidently  such  a  spirit  must  also  deter- 
mine the  lines  along  which  the  age  may  best  be  appealed  to. 
No  man  who  lives  by  the  light  of  yesterday,  or  who  talks 
the  language  of  to-morrow,  will  influence  his  generation  so 
greatly  as  he  who  talks  to  the  understanding  of  the  present 
day.    The  first  secret  for  effectiveness  is  always  that  of  living 
in  one's  own  time.    It  is  along  the  lines  of  the  present,  feel- 
ing its  deepest  needs  and  appreciating  its  most  valuable 
enthusiasms,  that  men  generally  find  their  best  opportunities 
of  achieving  muihood  for  themselves  and  rendering  service 
SM 


STBYBNSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

to  others.    How  does  Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  stand  in  this 
respect?     We  ^ave  been  studying  his  characteristics  as 
those  of  an  individual  thinker.    It  is  fitting  that  we  should 
close  our  study  with  some  attempt,  however  fragmentary 
at  a  more  public  and  typical  view  of  him.  as  he  takes  his' 
place  among  the  teachers  of  his  day.    What  does  he  stand 
for?     What  are  the  leading  characteristics  of  that  spirit 
which  he  represents,  and  what  is  its  religious  value  for  the 
new  time  ?    To  answer  that  question  it  will  be  necessary  to 
glance  rapidly  at  certain  aspects  of  the  past  history  of 
mtellectual    and   spiritual    tendencies    in   our    national 
literature. 

Among  all  the  complex  elements  of  human  nature,  whose 
various  combinations  determine  the  spirit  of  each  successive 
age.  there  runs  one  central  line  of  division,  which  marks  the 
main  dualism  both  in  times  and  in  individuals.     That 
dualism  has   been   differenUy  conceived  and  named  by 
diiferent  writers  and  at  difTerent  periods.    Sometimes  it  has 
been  understood  as  the  division  between  body  and  soul;  at 
others,  that  between  intellect  and  conscience.    It  has  given 
M  the  popukr  contrast  of  Puritan  with  pagan,  and  the 
classical  one  of  Hebraist   with  Hellenist.      The   latter 
nomenclature,  though  in  some  ways  far  from  satisfactory 
is  yet  that  which,  on  the  whole,  best  suits  our  subject,  and 
we  shall  borrow  it  from  Matthew  Arnold's  Culture  and 
Anarchy  for  the  present  purpose. 

In  another  of  his  books.  Celtic  Literature.  Arnold  has 
insisted  that  in  almost  every  living  Briton  there  is  some 
admixture  of  the  blood,  or  at  least  some  very  distinct  heredi- 
tary influence,  from  three  separate  races,  viz.  Celtic  Saxon 
and  Norman.  Of  these  three,  the  Saxon  elements  have  pro-' 
duced  a  character  plain,  steadfast,  and  practical— a  character 
which  always  tends  towards  the  Hebraic  type.  The  Celtic, 
with  its  fire  and  sensitiveness,  and  its  capacity  for  delight,' 

269 


i  i 


w 


THI    FAITH    OV    B.   L.   STIYINSON 

tondfintlMiiMiiitowMdiHellciiinD.  So  doM  the  Nonau 
in  virine  of  a  different  Mt  of  quelitiee— ita  futidious  delicacy 
end  ite  deer  and  nti(mel  eneigjr.  Etch  of  the  latter  two 
in  ita  different  waj,  boaete  a  Tivid  senie  of  eoloar  and  o 
beauty,  each  haa  an  exalted  apiritoality  of  ita  own— qaalitiet 
all  of  which  tend  towarda  Helleniam.  If  we  ooold  Uend  ai: 
theee  elementa,  ao  aa  to  produce  a  perfect  balance  of  char- 
acter and  harmony  of  ideala,  we  ahould  indeed  hare  achievec 
aomething  rvrj  like  perfect  manhood,  at  once  atrong  anc 
graoioua,  aa  eameat  aa  it  would  be  delicate.  If  we  masi 
confeaa  that  the  actual  Briton  falla  in  moat  caaea  fiur  ahorl 
of  ao  excellent  a  creature,  it  conaolea  na  to  reflect  that  thii 
ia  at  leaat  our  true  national  ideal.  Bach  nation  followa  iti 
own  lighta.  Ihe  apirituality  of  France,  the  practica] 
doggedneaa  of  Germany,  far  excel  anything  that  we  can 
boaat  But  all  their  lighta  are  alao  onra  in  a  measure  b} 
inheritance,  and  we  make  up  in  breadth  what  we  lack  in 
apecialiaed  intenaity. 

It  ia  but  too  true,  however,  that  the  blend  ia  in  no  cav' 
complete.  Aa  individuala,  we  for  ever  find  war  in  o 
membera,  with  two  or  more  than  two  typea  of  manho 
atmggling  within  ua  for  maatery.  There  ia  a  pagan  part  c 
human  nature  to  which  moat  men  occaaionally  revert, 
though  they  know  all  the  while  that  that  will  never  satisfy 
their  instinct  for  manhood;  and  a  Puritan  element  upon 
which  they  fling  themselvea  in  extreme  reaction,  though 
they  are  equally  well  aware  that  it  will  prove  to  be  but  a 
maimed  and  cheerleaa  ideal.  In  sume  caaea  one  or  other  of 
theae  mooda  ia  adopted  aa  the  normal  and  deairable  con- 
dition. Other  impulses  are  checked  and  mortified,  until 
the  character  becomes  intentionally  and  on  principle  one- 
aided.  But  even  with  the  most  succeaaful  discipline  this 
reanlt  ia  aeldom  completely  effected.  Ifoat  of  ua  feel  more 
or  less  to  the  end  the  swinging  of  th(»e  spiritual  tides  which 
270 


.•.v 


STBYllfSON    AND    HIS    TIHBS 

b««  01  bMkwMd  and  forward  with  thair  altemata  ebb  and 
flow. 

It  ii  the  same  with  the  moTement  of  Hiatory  on  the 
iMger  aoale.    Balance  ia  preeerred  on  the  whole,  yet  there 
never  haa  been  an  epoch  of  perfect  baknce.    ItiapreMrred 
by  the  oonatant  alternation  of  forces,  the  nme  tidal  awing 
••  is  felt  in  individual  livea    There  ia  no  long  duration  of 
either  tiie  Hellenistic  or  the  Hebraistic  tendencies.    Celt 
and  Saxon  act  and  react  within  the  national  character  at 
longer  or  shorter  intervaU.  but  with  unfailing  alternation. 
The  dark  severity  of  Mediieval  asceticism  was  foUowed  by 
the  glad  humanism  of  the  Benaissance;  tiiat  again  led  on 
to  the  Puritan  ascendency,  which  suddenly  ended  in  the 
Restoration ;  the  worldly  century  which  carried  on  the  tradi- 
tions  of  the  Restoration  brought  on  at  length  the  reUrious 
revivals  of  Whitefield  and  Wesley ;  these  in  tiieir  turn  were 
foUowed   by  that  great  outburst   of  secular  interest  in 
literature  and  science  which  began  Uie  nineteenth  century 
It  was  not  long  after  tiiat  until  Carlyle  was  solemnising  his 
times  with  a  new  Hebraism,  to  be  followed  at  length  by 
the  still  more  recent  Hellenism  of  to-day.    Let  it  not  be 
supposed  that  we  desire  exclusively  to  claim  truth  or  the 
message  of  God  to  man  for  either  the  brighter  or  the  sterner 
penods  of  the  past.    '  There  are.  it  may  be.  so  many  kinds  of 
voices  m  the  world,  and  none  of  them  is  without  significa- 
tion.'   God  was  in  them  aU,  and  His  Woid  was  spoken  by 
none  of  them  with  greator  clearness  than  by  some  of  those 
whose  voices  were  most  severe.    Only  we  imiist  that  the 
Word  of  God  is  spoken  not  only  in  the  sterner  voices  of  the 
generations  but  also  in  tiie  kindlier;  and  that,  in  the  main 
each  geneiation  must  hear  that  Word  in  its  own  Unguage' 
and  find  inspiration  in  ita  own  spiritual  ideals. 

Nothing  could  be  more  pleasant  than  a  study  of  those 
glad  voices  of  the  past  which  have  cheered  the  hearts  and 

271 


.   f 


1    I 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STBYINSOM 

eliMcd  awaj  Um  tun  of  loooMiiT*  goitntioiii.  Form 
ftftar  form  liiM  Won  the  inutgiiuktion.  Th«  dim  heroic 
figure  of  the  Heraklee  of  .Aehjlu  ia  there,  him  whom,  in 
Browning's  poem,  we  have  quoted  twice  elfeedj : 

'Th«  g»y  obMT  of  UmI  gVMkt  TOiM 

Hop*,  joy,  MlTktioB  i  HonklM  wm  htn 

Htmolf  0^  tk«  thmhold,  mt  kii  Toieo  on  flnt 

To  kmOd  til  tkftt  kama  Md  4lviM 

rtlMWMiy,  b^pjftMofkia.  .  .  . 

Tho  inwtattUo,  MNud,  wImUmim  ImvI 

O*  th»  k«o . . .  dratt  bMk,  driod  np  wmw  at  ita  Mmnt.' 

There  too  ii  DimbMr,  with  hif  old  iweet  worda: 

'B«  morry,  mu,  oad  tak  not  wir  ia  mind 

Tho  WATMting  of  this  n.-otoUt  varld  ol  mutow  : 
To  Ood  bo  hoablo  and  to  thy  friond  bo  kind. 

And  Witt  Aj  Biehtbonn  gladly  lead  and  boirow ; 
Hia  ohanoo  to-aiekt,  it  may  bo  tbiao  to-momw ; 

Bo  blytho  ia  hoatt  for  oay  aToatnio, 
For  oft  with  wiio  man  it  hat  booa  add  aforrow, 

Without  gladaow  ayaileth  no  troaiuro.' 

Shakeapeere  knew  them,  and  the  Talne  ot  them,  these  glad 
enconragers  of  the  world.  It  ia  his  own  King  Henry  V.  who 
goes  forth  in  the  dark  and  ominoua  night,  and  walking  from 
tent  to  tent,  visits  the  host  with  such  '  cheerful  semblance 
and  aweet  majesty,' 

*  That  oTory  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before, 
Beholding  him  plncki  eomfort  tnm  his  looki,' 

under  the  spell  of 

<  A  little  tonch  of  Harry  in  the  night.' 

John  Bunyan,  Puritan  though  he  be,  is  conspicuous  for  his 
appreciation  of  this  side  of  life.  His  Hopeful,  Help,  and  a 
long  list  of  others,  are  prophets  of  the  brighter  trutL  Hit 
Oreatheart  is  but  a  shadow,  yet  he  lives  in  the  town  of 
273 


8TBYBN80N    AND    HIS    TIMES 

Good  Confidence,  and  the  eyil  workers  of  the  dtrknen  flee 
before  hiu. 

DMte  ie  tue  meet  signifiouit  of  them  all.  Aiutere  and 
•oUmn.  burdened  with  lifelong  sorrow,  and  bearing  on  his 
heart  his  naUon's  and  the  world's  iniquities,  yet  the  sin  he 
most  bitterlj  rebukes  is  that  of  perverse  gloom.  By  far  his 
best  work  is  the  PwgaUmo.  The  Inftno  is  subterranean, 
the  ParadiK  is  in  the  air,  whUe  the  Pmrgatorio  is  on  the 
aarth.  with  ito  bieese  fresh  off  the  sea  or  heavy  with  the 
•cent  of  flower*  Thisfor  ever  claims  him  from  untempered 
Hebraism,  which  is  essentiaUy  the  doctrine  of  heaven  and 
heU,  for  Hellenism  which  has  a  religion  of  the  green  earth 
SB  well 

These  are  but  a  few  instances,  found  in  this  and  other 
hnds,  cited  at  random  as  they  came  to  mind  from  the  great 
company  of  the  world's  heartiest  and  bravest  spirits. 
Lutening  to  them,  we  seem  to  hear  the  laughter  of  that 
cheerful  soul  of  the  world  which  the  sorrows  of  all  the 
^  net  have  not  quenched.  These  immorUl  dead, 
— .ang  upon  us  and  our  perplexities  from  their  happy 
BUtions,  still  cheer  us  by  their  undying  health  aud  con- 
fidence  and  gladness.  It  is  to  that  band  that  the  writer, 
most  typical  of  the  new  spirit  of  to^ay  belon,-?.  and  Steven- 
son  is  in  the  front  rank  of  them. 

To  return  from  this  digression:  the  period  immediately 
preceding  the  present  was  one  of  sombre  Hebraic  tone  It 
was  indeed  a  time  of  many-sided  Uterary  activity,  but  the 
voice  that  dominated  it  was  the  voice  of  Thomas  Ccrlyle 
Born  in  the  same  vear  as  Keats,  and  but  three  years  after 
SheUey,  he  had  to  wait  till  theii'  voices,  and  others  of  their 
fame,  were  sUenced.  Then  his  solemn  accents  found  hear- 
mg  m  a  world  ready  for  a  period  of  reaction.  The  year 
after  Sir  Walter  Scott  died,  when  Byron  had  been  dead 
mne  years,  Shelley  eleven,  and  Keats  twelve,  appeared  Sartor 

«  273 


'*-3 


THB    ^AITH    OV    R.   L.   ST1VBM80M 


iSMoHiM— otrtainlj  tlM  most  orilio«l  and  •poob-iMkiii|i 
book  publisbod  in  Um  ninttoenth  oontary.  Then  foUowadj 
that  Utentart  of  which  Thaoktray,  the  Brontiis,  and  Qeorgtl 
Eliot  may  b«  takan  at  rapiaaentatiTa  typaa.  Looking  back, 
at  tha  diatanoa  of  thna-quartan  of  a  oantarj,  it  would  Mem; 
aa  if,  after  the  age  of  Soott  and  hia  oontemporariea,  Boglith ' 
literature  had  grown  eonaoienoe-itricken,  feeling  that  the 
earlier  period  had  enjoyed  life  too  well  to  be  quite  fitting  in 
so  aerioua  a  world.  The  auoceeding  period  ia  the  age  of  I 
atemer  propheta,  whoee  meaaage  waa  a  burden  of  the  Lotd.  i 
Carljla'a  earth  ia  not  green  nor  ia  hia  heaven  golden.  Hit  > 
God  ia  eaaentially  a  Taakmaater;  and  accordingly  for  him ' 
work  ia  the  one  reality,  happineaa  a  negligible  detail. 

To  think  otherwiae  than  reverently  of  that  great  time  and  i 
ita  aolemn  meaaage,  would  be  aa  ungratefiil  aa  it  would  be  I 
ignorant  It  aeema  likely  that  many  a  year  will  paaei 
before  a  new  time  matchea  it  for  greatneaa.  Tet  obviously  i 
such  a  apirit  muat  be  but  for  a  time.  Imagine  a  aueceuion  I 
of  unbroken  perioda  of  aimilar  Hebraiam,  and  it  will  not  b«  | 
long  until  you  ahall  have  reduced  human  nature  to  a  uere 
akeleton,  holding  nothing  within  it  but  a  conacience  for  a 
aouL  To  the  nineteenth  century  at  leaat  the  burden  grew  { 
unbearable.  In  the  awifter  and  more  headlong  race  of  life  | 
many  men  were  ao  wearied  aa  to  require  aomething  kindlier  I 
tha^  even  the '  Everlaating  Yea.'    The  inoreaaing  complica- ! 

31  aocial  problema,  and  the  more  enlightened  aympatby  ! 
with  aocial  miaeriea,  forced  all  who  loved  their  fellow  men  ; 
to  recogniae  both  an  economic  and  a  religioua  value  in  I 
happineaa.    Owing  to  a  great  variety  of  cauaea,  not  a  few 
thoughtful  men  and  women  have  loat  their  hold  upon  the 
religioua   beliefa  which  aupported  tie  courage  of  their 
fathera ;  and  our  leading  peaaimiat  hia  noted  the  result,  as 
a  fitct  obvious  enough  to  require  no  proof — '  the  chronic 
melancholy  which  ia  taking  hold  on  the  dviliaed  races  with 

274 


III 
Si 


BTBVINBON    AND    HIS    TIMBS 

th*  dMUae  of  b«U«f  in  •  buiefioent  power.'  A  chnwd 
obMrror  hM  notiocd  on*  ioctanoo  in  which  th«  facial 
npNMion  is  almdy  changing.  In  the  portraite  of  Englidi 
gentlMnen  of  the  eighteenth  centuiy,  the  eyebrows  an 
nsoally  ronnded,  as  in  men  phusid  and  at  their  ease  The 
Uving  faoes  of  the  desoendanU  of  these  genUemen  may 
reproduce  almost  ezaoUy  the  features  of  their  ancestors,  but 
in  one  respect  they  wiU  often  be  found  to  differ.  The 
eyebrows  are  I  wered  to  a  sharper  and  more  straightened 
curve.  This  rurfous  detail  of  the  falling  eyebrow  is  surely 
lignificant  Although,  as  we  believe,  the  pessimistic 
estimate  of  our  Ume  is  grossly  exaggeratec,  still  there  must 
be  a  considerable  body  of  facts  which  have  seemed  to  jusUfy 

it  These  indicate  that  the  first  necessity  of  the  present  day 
is  for  an  encouraging  and  heartening  type  of  f&ith.  lest  we 
unk  to  that  Jin  dttUeU  dejection  in  which  an  age  'goes 
dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish.' 

When  w )  venture  to  assert  that  Carlyle  d  las  contem- 
poraries have  served  their  generation,  we  iply  not  only 
that,  meanwhile  at  least,  their  tinie  in  past;  but  that  in 
that  past  time  they  did  incalculabi-.  service,  for  which  all 
wise  generations  hencefi.h  wiU  eiil  them  blessed.  But 
their  time  is  past,  and  a  :  cw  spirit  has  taken  command  of 
our  literature.  Nothing  could  prove  this  more  convincingly 
than  the  fate  of  those  thinkers  of  to-day  who  have 
remained  aloof  from  its  exhilarating  and  buoyant  hopeful- 
ness. Stephen  Phillips  is  gifted  with  a  wonderfuUy  rich 
and  pure  poetic  quaUty,  but  Mr.  Churton  Collins  utters  the 
exact  truth  when  he  speaks  of  the  'monotonous  dreariness' 
of  his  poems.  William  Watson  is  an  unrivalled  master  of 
poeUc  criticism,  expressed  with  a  severe  and  noble  Doric 
power,  but  his  subjectivity  tends  to  pass  over  into  sheer 
pumbling.  Thomas  Hardy's  strength  is  Titanic,  but  he  is 
the  master.pessimist  of  our  time.    Bobert  Louis  Stevenson 

375 


i! 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSON 

wrot<;:  'Denunciatory  preachers  seem  not  to  suspect tht 
they  may  be  taken  gravely  and  in  evil  part;  thatyounj 
men  may  come  to  think  of  life  as  of  a  moment,  and  witl 
the  pride  of  Satan  wave  back  the  inadequate  gift.'  This  i 
exactly  what  has  happened.  For  here  comes  Thoma 
Hardy  telling  us  that '  The  view  of  life  as  a  thing  to  be  pa 
up  with,  replacing  that  zest  for  existence  which  was  » 
intense  in  early  civilisations,  must  ultimately  enter  « 
thoroughly  into  the  constitution  of  the  advanced  races  tha 
its  facial  expression  will  become  accepted  as  a  new  artistii 
departure.'  When  we  read  further  on,  that '  Human  beings 
in  their  generous  endeavour  to  construct  a  hypothesis  thai 
shall  not  degrade  a  First  Cause,  have  always  hesitated  U 
conceive  a  dominant  power  of  lower  moral  quality  thai 
their  own,'  we  see  the  Nemesis  that  inevitably  comes  upon 
a  belated  Hebraism. 

The  note  of  the  new  spirit  is  health  and  gladness.  It  ii 
true  that  these  have  had  their  advocates  in  the  preceding 
time,  and  indeed  in  every  time.  All  generalisations  which 
divide  the  progress  of  thought  into  periods  are  necessarily 
very  far  from  being  either  exhaustive  or  exclusive.  It  ia 
by  subtle  changes  of  emphasis,  by  the  silent  and  often 
unconscious  disappearance  of  one  set  of  conceptions,  and  the 
equally  unobtrusive  introduction  of  other  conceptions,  that 
each  new  Zeitgeist  comes  in  place  of  an  old.  Yet  in  the 
course  of  years  these  changes,  unnoticeable  at  the  moment, 
grow  obvious  at  last ;  and  we  know  that  we  are  breathing 
the  air  of  a  new  day. 

As  for  the  present  spirit,  it  has  already  asserted  itself 
along  the  whole  line  of  contemporary  literature.  Bobert 
Browning  and  Matthew  Arnold  were  its  pioneers  in  the 
departments  of  Poetry  and  of  Criticism.  The  robust  and 
uncompromising  optimism  of  Browning  is  now  happily  so 
familiar  that  any  quotations  in  proof  of  it  are  unuecessarj. 
276 


STEYBNSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

The  cultured  HeUeniam  of  Arnold  has  been 
Engliah  thought  for  many  years.  Both  writers  came  beforo 
their  age,  and  had  to  be  content  with  neglect  and  misunder- 
standing; but  like  others  born  out  of  due  season,  they  did 
much  to  mould  the  spirit  of  the  coming  time.  Each  of 
them  is  deliberate  in  his  reaction  from  the  CarlyUan  spirit. 
The  very  boisterousness  of 

'  Qod '« in  his  hearen, 
All  ••  right  with  the  world,' 

and  a  hundred  other  verses  of  Browning's,  is  of  the  nature 
of  a  protest.    Arnold  tells  us— and  the  words  are  charac- 
teristic of  his  habit  of  serene  overstatement  of  what  is 
nevertheless  a  truth-that,  in  his  opinion,  Carlyle  is  'carry- 
ing  coab  to  Newcastle.  .  .   .   preaching  earnestness  to  a 
nation  which  had  plenty  of  it  by  nature,  but  was  less 
abundantly  supplied  with  several  other  useful  things- 
Sir  John  Lubbock  (Lord  Avebury)  has  given  us,  in  his 
Pleamres  of  Lift,  a  remarkable  example  of  the  invasion  of 
Science  by  the  same  spirit.    It  is  a  collection  of  innumer- 
able  quotations  from  writers  old  and  new.  the  gatherings 
from  many  years  of  reading.     It  is  the  cheerfuUest  book 
imaginable.    All  possible  sources  are  ransacked,  or  rather, 
88  the  author  is  careful  to  state,  not  nearly  all,  though 
many,  sources.    The  cumulative  result  would  satisfy  Mark 
Tapley  or  the  Cheeryble  Brothers.    He  rings  the  changes  on 
the  Duty  of  Happiness  and  the  Happiness  of  Duty.    He  is 
prepared  to  make  the  best  of  everything  life  may  have  in 
store  for  him;  and  even  death  is  to  find  him  invimm^ 
parattu,  and  yet  full  of  hope. 

Professor  WUliam  James  has  brought  the  same  spirit 
into  philosophy.  He  has  done  this  not  only  in  his  well- 
known  and  much-dcbated  Giflford  Lectures,  but  in  all  his 
books.    Some  of  his  best  work  in  this  line  is  to  be  found  in 

277 


r  i 


THB    FAITH    OP    R.    L.    STEVENSON 

those  essays  entitled  Talks  to  Students,  whose  themes  ai 
'The  Gospel  of  Relaxation,'  'On  a  Certain  Blindness  i 
People/  and '  What  makes  life  Significant'  The  splendi 
healthf ulness  of  these  essays,  their  width  of  sympathy  an 
depth  of  understanding,  and  their  immense  practical  ei 
couragement  to  many  hard-pressed  people,  rank  him  big 
among  the  helpers  of  mankind.  His  Gifford  Lectures,  apai 
from  all  controversial  points  they  may  have  raised,  h&\ 
certainly  achieved  one  end  at  least  They  have  constraine 
Philosophy  to  take  serious  account  of  the  spirit  of  Healthj 
mindedness,  as  a  phenomenon  of  first  importance  in  the  111 
and  thought  of  to-day.  In  doing  this  they  have  efTectuall 
served  to  fix  it  as  a  characteristic  spirit  of  our  time,  an 
to  lead  to  its  recognition  as  such. 

The  Church,  too,  has  her  representatives.  Few  writing 
of  late  years  are  more  significant  than  Bishop  Paget 
brilliant  essay  •  Concerning  Accidie,'  which  forms  the  intrc 
duction  to  his  volume  entitled  The  Spirit  of  Diteipline.  I 
that  essay  he  reviews  the  phases  of  melancholy  as  the; 
appeared  in  past  ages;  and,  for  the  benefit  of  the  presen 
age,  he  sets  Fortitude  against  Gloom  once  more,  as  a  kind  c 
righteousness  much  needed  to  combat  a  deadly  sin.  It  i 
pathetic  to  remember,  as  he  reminds  us,  that  Chaucer  aii( 
Langland  had  to  do  the  same  thing  so  long  ago.  It  is  fo 
us  peculiarly  interesting  to  find  that  he  puts  The  Celestia 
Surgeon  in  a  prominent  position  among  works  of  con 
temporary  authors  to  the  same  purpose,  and  gives  b 
Stevenson  the  place  of  honour  among  them.  All  througl 
his  work  there  runs  the  same  strain  of  brightness  an( 
vivacity,  the  same  call  to  courageous  health  and  gladness. 

Finally,  there  is  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  who,  for  man; 

reasons,  may  be  taken  as  the  chief  representative  of  th 

healthful  and  bright  spirit  of  the  new  HeUenism.     Thi 

popularity  of  a  book  or  doctrine  does  not  indeed  aflford  anj 

278 


STEVENSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

evidence  of  their  ultimate  truth,  but  it  may  be  fairly  said  to 
show  that  they  have  met  a  felt  want  of  their  time.    In  this 
connection  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  The  Pleamret  of  Life 
has,  since  its  publication  in  1887,  already  all  but  reached 
its  two  hundredth  thousand.    The  popularity  of  Stevenson 
has  long  been  assured,  and  it  is  still  rising.    To  a  very  large 
number  of  readers  he  is  the  unrivalled  favourite  among  the 
writers  of  his  time.   Many  reasons  may  be  assigned  for  this. 
We  have  seen   how  many-sided   his  interests  were,  how 
sensitive  to  every  sort  of  influence.    That  in  itself  rendered 
it  probable  that  he  would  call  out  a  wide  and  various 
response.    His  genius  is  as  commanding  as  his  personality 
is  attractive,  and  such  a  light  as  his  could  not  have  been 
hid.    Tet  after  the  fullest  allowance  has  been  made  for  all 
that,  it  still  remains  true  that  the  deepest  secret  of  his 
popularity  is  the  need  that  men  and  women  have  felt  for 
the  message  he  has  brought,  and  the  powerful  effect  o!  it 
in  quickening  their  lives.   That  message  we  have  found  to  be 
the  'great  task  of  happiness,'  backed  by  moral  earnestness 
on  the  one  hand  and  sympathy  on  the  other.    We  have 
sought  to  trace  it  from  its  sources  in  the  gift  of  vision  and 
the  instinct  of  travel.   We  have  seen  how  it,  like  all  gospels, 
has  passed  through  bitterness.    From  the  conventionalities 
of  his  early  surroundings  he  broke  away  in  a  revolt  that  for 
the  time  being  was  painful   and  dangerous  in  the  last 
degree.    In  after-life,  the  physical  conditions  through  which 
he  had  to  fight  his  way  to  health  of  mind  were  such  as  to 
have  silenced  any  preacher  less  resolute  and  less  convinced. 
From  all  this  he  emerged  on  us,  original  and  clear-sighted 
in  thought,  swift  and  energetic  in  action,  and  radiantly 
healthy  in  both.   Finally  we  have  seen  the  whole  of  this  life 
and  work  culminate  in  the  Gospel  of  health  and  gladness, 
his  own  especial  word  to  his  brethren  of  mankind.    To  be 
happy  is  every  man's  immediate  task  and  duty — to  be 

279 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    STBVBNSON 

happy  and  to  ipread  happiness  aiom>d  him.  Stevenson 
meets  eU  snch  lamentable  prophecies  as  that  one  above 
quoted  regarding  'the  facial  expression  of  the  futnre,'  with 
his  often-repeated  ohaUenge  that  we  shaU  present  to  the 
world  a '  glorious  morning  face.'  A  princely  figure,  he  takes 
his  station  in  the  front  rank  of  those  wK  .je  fidth  is  that  of 
the  healthy  mind. 

It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  Stevenson— and  he  is 
by  no  means  the  only  one  of  whom  this  f  h?t  is  true— had  to 
fight  against  terrible  odds  his  battle  for  the  gladder  faith. 
His  victory  proves  that  the  thing  can  be  done.  All  who 
will  may  make  a  stand  against  the  gloom  which  they  have 
seen  closing  in  upon  themselves  and  their  time.  To  many 
who  have  suffered  far  less  than  he,  his  faith  is  a  chaUenge 
to  fling  off  their  neurotic  miseries,  and  to  quit  themselves 
Uke  men.  To  others,  strong  and  capable,  but  bewildered 
and  discouraged,  the  thought  of  such  a  inan  may  be  an 
inspiration  of  priceless  value. 

Obviously  all  manifestetions  of  Hellenism  are  liable  to 
the  two  great  dangers  of  moral  haity  and  pleasure-loving 
selfishness,  evils  which  undoubtedly  are  a  serious  menace 
to  the  younger  life  of  the  present  day.  Against  both  of 
these  dangers  Stevenson  has  safeguarded  his  message. 

In  respect  of  the  former,  the  question  at  once  presents 
itself,  Is  it  safe,  this  kindlier  and  brighter  view  ?  To  which 
history  answers  promptly  that  that  depends  upon  its  safe- 
guards. An  indolent  and  selfish  HeUenism  is  supremely 
dangerous,  inevitably  degrading  and  ruinous.  If  we  were 
condemned  to  a  choice  between  Hellenism  unstrengthened 
by  any  Hebraism,  and  Hebraism  nntempered  by  any 
Hellenism,  every  wise  man  would  choose  the  latter.  Pro- 
fessor Butcher  has  found  it  necessary  to  defend  Hellenism 
against  the  charge  of  being  'eccentricity  tinged  with  vice.' 
For  Hellenism,  when  it  has  appeared  as  a  revolt  from 
280 


STBTENSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

Hebraic  aristerity,  has  sometimes  rushed  into  that  infatua- 
tion of  moral  lazitj  wbieh  prides  itself  on  its  freedom 

•To  nj  of  vice,  What  is  it  1 

Of  Tirtue,  We  can  miis  it, 

Of  sin,  We  can  but  kiss  it, 

And  'tis  no  longer  sin.' 

Even  Walt  Whitman,  with  all  the  exhilarating,  opulence  of 
his  thought,  is  marred  by  one  great  defect.  He  seems  to  be 
incapable  of  realising  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  sin  *  at  alL 
Needless  to  say,  any  so-called  Hellenism  such  as  this  is 
neither  a  healthy  nor  a  helpful  thing.  Stevenson  owed  much 
to  Whitman,  and  has  not  been  wanting  in  acknowledgment 
Yet  any  one  who  knows  Whitman's  writings  and  Stevenson's 
essay  on  them,  must  feel  that  with  all  the  apppreciation  and 
gratitude,  there  is  still  a  reserve,  and  that  bis  catholicity 
has  not  abrogated  any  of  his  own  convictions.  In  Steven- 
son's opinion,  as  in  Professor  James's,*  Whitman's  optimism 
'  o'erleaps  itself,  and  falls  on  t'  other  side.'  Without  a  consid- 
erable weight  of  Hebraism  for  ballast,  the  vessel  of  Hellen- 
ism is  at  the  mercy  of  all  the  winds  of  evil.  When  iight- 
heartednesB  means  indifference  to  moral  facts,  it  is  no  more 
to  be  called  health  than  are  the  comfort  and  painlessness 
which  sometimes  smooth  the  downward  course  of  disease. 

For  Stevenson,  as  we  have  seen  him,  there  were  many 
safeguards.  His  sense  of  the  terror  of  the  world,  and  his 
viaw  of  heredity,  were  themselves  sufficient  to  sober  the 
most  fantastic  'reveller  in  the  situation.'  There  were  also 
his  vitality  and  his  human  sympathy  to  guard  against  laxity. 
When  courage  and  vivacity  are  the  watchwords  of  the 
personal  life,  when  the  hcttrt  is  open  to  a  world  of  the 
disinherited  who  everywhere  around  us  claim  their  share 
of  gladness,  it  is  safe  to  follow  the  bright  ideal.  'Let  us 
teach  the  people,'  says  Stevenson,  'as  much  as  we  can,  to 

'  Cf .  The  7arietie»  q/  Rdigioua  Exptrienu,  p.  87. 

281 


w 


W' 


r  K 


I' 


ilMi 


^^ 


THE    FAITH    OP    R.    L.   STBVBNSON 

enjoy,  and  thej  will  learn  for  thenuelvos  to  lympathiae; 
but  let  ns  aee  to  it  above  all  tbat  we  give  these  leeaons  in  a 
brave,  vivacioos  note,  and  build  the  man  up  in  courage 
while  we  demolish  its  substitute,  indifference.'  He  retained 
throughcnt,  a  strong  conscience  of  sin  and  a  vivid  sense  of 
its  disastrous  and  repulsive  sinfulness.  Aws' »  of  the 
reality  of  evil,  associating  beauty  with  goodness;  sobered 
by  an  almost  Calvinistio  sense  of  the  seriousness  of  life, 
assured  that  good  and  not  evil  lay  at  the  heart  of  the  uni- 
verse—there was  little  fear  of  the  result.  He  was  essenti- 
ally a  Hellenist;  but  he  had  appropriated  so  considerable 
an  amount  of  Hebraism  of  the  Scottish  type,  as  to  insure 
his  optimistic  faith  against  the  risk  of  licence. 

The  second  danger  of  such  a  message  as  his  is  that  it 
should  be  confounded  with  pleasure-loving  and  worldliness. 
This  is  especially  the  danger  of  a  society  whose  increased 
wealth  is  tempting  it  by  a  thousand  new  opportunities  of 
self-indulgence.     It  cannot  be  too  strongly  asserted  that 
selfish  pleasure-loving  is  not  a  phase  of  health  but  a  disease. 
The  belief  in  life  is  the  extreme  opposite  of  a  cheap  satis- 
faction with  the  world.     The  low  ideals  of  worldliness 
are  but  the  travesty  of  God's  gkd  word  for  to-day,  the 
caricature  of  His  ideal  as  Stevenson  beheld   it.     Only 
these,  as  we  have  already  stated,  who  look  beyond  the 
world  can  really  appreciate  even  the  world  itself,  and  world- 
liness is  the  most  pathetic  of  follies,  foredoomed  to  faUure 
by  the  very  constitution  of  things.    It  has  been  well  said  that 
'  earth  is  in  darkness  if  it  lives  not  in  the  light  of  heaven.' 

We  have  had  abundant  opportunity  of  observing  the 
exalted  spirituaUty  of  Stevenson's  view  of  earth.  He  was 
aware  of  a  spiritual  world,  not  so  much  above  this  world 
as  within  it,  by  reference  to  which  he  was  constantly  in- 
terpreting the  daily  life.  Thus  he  was  spiritual,  but  not  with 
the  hectic  spirituality  of  those  who  have  become  aUenated 
282 


STEVENSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

from  the  earthly  life  with  its  physical  conditions  and 
human  interests.  His  spirituality  was  that  true  health  of 
mind,  in  which  life  is  seen  as  it  is,  under  earthly  conditions 
indeed,  hut  with  a  secret  inspiration  impossible  without  the 
vision  of  spiritual  things. 

With  these  safeguards,  Hellenism  is  safe,  and  it  oiTera  us 
a  view  of  life  whose  conspicuous  quality  is  that  of  glad 
health.    The  Religion  of  He^lthy-mindedness  is  being  much 
discussed  in  our  time.    As  Stevenson  advocated  it,  health 
must  be  understood  in  its  etymological  sciise  of  wholenesb, 
for  it  is  a  happy  and  suggestive  fact  that  the  two  words 
are  the  same.    The  healthy  eye  is  not  that  which  sees  all 
things  under  a  rosy  light,  any  more  than  that  which  sees  all 
things  yellow.    The  first  condition,  and  indeed  the  essential 
meaning  of  health,  is  truth  to  the  whole  facts  of  the  case. 
Accordingly  the  war  of  the  new  Hellenism  is  only  against 
one-sided  views  of  things.    It  is  not  destructive  or  silencing 
towards  any  set  of  truths,  but  rather  reconciling  and  com- 
prehensive.   It  looks  fearlessly  around  the  whole  horizon  of 
the  world  and  notes  all  there  is  to  see ;  and  its  verdict  is  that 
when  you  have  seen  all,  you  cease  to  be  afraid  of  life,  for 
you  have  found  that  the  victory  lies  with  good  and  not  with 
evil.    It  is  only  in  virtue  of  this  heartening  persuasion,  that 
Stevenson's  message  can  be  understood.    Assured  of  this, 
he  directs  us  to  dwell  on  the  pleasantness  rather  than  on 
the  miseries  of  our  lot;  he  presses  on  our  conscience  the 
positive  instead  of  the  negative  virtues ;  he  lays  stress  on 
hope  instead  of  on  remorse,  and  trains  our  eyes  rather  on 
the  beauty  of  goodness  than  on  the  ugliness  of  sin.    In  a 
word,  ae  counsels  us  to  live  in  the  light  and  not  the 
darkness,  and  to  believe  in  life  as  an  unfailing  opportunity 
of  seeing  God's  glory  in  common  joys  and  sorrows,  and 
doing  God's  work  in  simple  duties. 
It  remains  for  us  to  estimate  in  a  few  last  words  the 

283 


1^^ 


■I  1- 


■f 


THE    FAITH    OF    R.    L.    8T1YBN80N 

valw  of  this  spirit  whiob  fottnd  in  Stevenson  so  briUiant  an 
exponent,  in  terms  of  Psychology  ud  of  Beligion. 

1.  The  spirit  of  whioh  we  spedt  is  vitaUy  end  closely 
aUied  with  Piychology.    The  ultimate  grounds  of  faith  are 
not  psychological  but  always  theological.    Even  the  atheist 
is  a  theologian :  it  certainly  was  not  the  study  of  his  own 
soul  and  ito  facto  which  gave  him  his  conviction  that  there 
is  no  God.    We  have  found  that  Stevenson  himself  resto  his 
optimism  upon  a  conviction  of  ultimate  facto  which  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  unaided  psychology.    God's  Bevelation 
of  Himself  to  man  is  manifold,  and  may  be  found  both  in 
outward  facto  nn(^  in  inward  experience;  but  each  beUever 
falls  back  on  his  assurance  that  God  has  tomekcno  broken 
the  sUence  and  has  spoken  words  of  eternal  life  to  him  ^ho 
will  hear  them.    Granted  the  revelation,  in  which,  however 
conceived,  we  get  out  beyond  thd  psychological  region  and 
are  in  touch  with  the  ultimate  reaUty  of  things,  the  next 
question  is  how  we  are  to  relate  to  actual  life,  as  our  guide 
in  thought  and  conduct,  that  ultimate  truth  which  we  have 
found.    There  has  sometimes  been  a  tendency  to  keep  the 
revelation  apart  from  Ufe,  to  explain  the  whole  phenomena 
of  the  religious  experience  in  terms  kept  exclusively  for 
themselves,  or  not  to  attempt  to  explain  them  at  all    It 
is  here  that  the  modem  spirit  makes  a  new  departure.    Mr. 
Fotheringham,  in  his  book  of  studies  on  Eobert  Browning! 
has  said  that '  the  great  modem  view  of  religion '  U  that  it  is 
•  part  of  the  vital  study  of  man.'    In  other  words,  the  whole 
play  0'  man's  mind  in  ito  various  religious  exercises  is  studied 
as  the  same  in  kind  with  ito  play  upon  the  common  facte  of 
life,  and  ito  experiences  are  analysed  by  the  same  methods. 
It  is  characteristic  of  the  new  spirit,  that  ito  pnncipal  advo- 
(»tes  are  psychologisto   Professor  James  is  the  most  influen- 
tial psychologist  alive.    Robert  Browning  was  the  greatest 
exponent  of  psychological  drama  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
284 


STBVBNSON    AND    HIS    T1MB8 

Th«  interpnteUon  of  nligicoi  ezpoienoM  in  tennt  of  the 
B^a^nl  laws  of  psychologjr  bu  given  ahnn  needleialy, 
though  not  nnnatnnUy,  to  some  beUeven.     Theee  hftve 
feUen  into  the  eune  faUacy  as  that  to  which  Darwin's 
critics  have  often  succumbed:  they  have  foigotten  that  to 
explain  the  process  of  a  phenomenon  is  not  to  explain  ito 
ultimate  causes,  or  to  deny  to  it  the  operation  of  those  hidden 
spiritual  forces  with  which  Christianity  has  fan>iHflrised  us. 
Spiritual  experience  would  be  no  less  divine  though  we 
were  able  to  trace  it  point  by  point  along  a  sequence  of 
psychological  processes  to  the  point  at  which  the  soul  of 
man  receives  from  God  His  authentic  revelation.    Divine- 
ness  does  not  consist  in  unintelligibiUty,  nor  is  it  the  sole 
attribute  of  God  that  he  hideth  Himself  from  sight    So  far 
from  being  in  any  way  a  menace  to  religion,  psychology 
may  be  and  has  been  among  the  most  valuable  of  its  aUies. 
The  worst  feature  about  religion  as  it  has  often  been  under- 
stood  is  its  aloofness  from  the  ordinary  facts  of  life,  and  its 
severance  of  the  sacred  from  the  secular.    The  ineviUble 
result  for  the  miyority  of  men  must  be  a  deadening  of  the 
reUgious   interest,  and   a   more  or  less  gloomy  sense  of 
remoteness  in  sacred  things.    The  temptation  to  pessimism, 
or  at  least  discouragement,  comes  to  aU  men  from  the  dis- 
heartening  experience  of  their  daily  conflicts  and  defeats. 
But  those  whose  reUgion  is  held  apart  have  no  defence 
against  it,  the  God  whom  their  theory  has  isolated  from 
life  being  -far  off  from  helping  them.'     To  such  men 
the   new  spirit  offers   a  God  who   is   near  at  hand,  a 
Word  which  is  nigh  them,  in  their  mouth  and  in  their 
heart.    The  result  is  immediate  in  the  spring  of  quickened 
vital  interest  and  enthusiasm,  in  an  optimistic  view  of  life 
and  a  gospel  of  health  and  gladness. 

Such  was  Stevenson's  way  of  dealing  with  the  phenomena 
of  the  religious  life.    As  we  have  seen,  he  recognised  that 


u  I 


THB    FAITH    OF    B.    L.   STIYIMBON 


he  WM  eMentUlly  a  psyohologist  Hi*  fandamenUl  oon- 
viotion  WM  that  o{  penonal  identity  and  the  ineatimable 
value  of  the  individual  human  muL  Hia  dootrines  of  life 
and  morale  were  drawn  from  a  fiur<4eeing  and  dear  insight 
into  the  facte  of  human  nature.  He  iniisted  on  finding 
theee  for  himself,  and  in  various  reepects  they  diflTer  from 
the  commonly  accepted  views.  One  quality  they  all  have, 
and  that  unfailingly :  they  are  vital  and  not  conventional. 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  this  vital  and  direct  way  of  dealing 
with  the  fisotB  of  human  life  should  lead  on  to  his  great 
message  of  gladness.  All  worthy  Hellenism  is  character- 
ised by  a  profound  belief  in  life  and  a  conviction  that  it  ia 
worth  living.  True,  that  conviction  rests  ultimately  among 
facts  that  are  beyond  life,  as  we  have  seen.  Yet  it  can 
remain  and  grow  stronger  in  a  more  and  more  assured 
optimism,  only  on  the  condition  that  a  man's  continued 
experience  and  atudy  of  life  shall  confirm  it.  And 
Stevenson  found  it  confirmed. 

2.  The  more  important  question,  as  to  the  religious  value 
of  Stevenson's  message,  remains.  Is  this  gospel  of  glad 
healthfulness,  which  he  and  others  are  proclaiming,  a 
religion  at  all  ?  Can  it  even  be  said  to  possess  any  serious 
religicus  value  ?  No  doubt  some  of  those  who  find  it  very 
precious  as  a  stimulus  and  source  of  encouragement  will 
answer  that  this  does  not  concern  them.  So  long  as  it 
quickens  vitality  and  brightens  the  aspect  of  life  for  them, 
they  will  ask  no  more  from  it  To  these  it  must  be  replied 
that  they  would  be  wiser  if  they  did  ask  more.  A  faith  in 
life  such  as  Stevenson's  requires  foundations  and  it  requires 
sanctions.  We  have  seen  how  for  him  the  foundations  were 
laid  upon  the  ultimate  facte.  To  all  honest  thinkers  there 
must  come  an  hour  when  they  have  to  face  the  investigation 
of  the  grounds  on  which  their  faith  is  resting.  Psychology 
can  do  nothing  for  them  then.  If  they  have  no  assured 
286 


B.TBVBNBON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

foandAtions  beyond  the  region  it  explores,  they  will  luive 
to  confSaia  to  themtelree  definitely  at  last  that  their  faith  ia 
gnrandleae.  and  haTing  stated  that  in  plain  termi  they  will 
neyer  again  be  able  to  trust  life  except  by  forgetting.  It 
requires  sanctions  alno.  for  life  is  sure  to  put  the  breaking 
strain  of  sorrow  upon  the  faith  of  moet  men.  A  riew  of 
things  at  once  so  attractive  in  itself  and  so  full  of  interesting 
associations  as  this  of  Stevenson's  is  a  fine  thing  to  keep 
about  one  as  an  ornamental  part  of  one's  mental  furniture. 
But  when  it  oomes  to  fighting,  it  is  not  the  chasing  of  the 
design  upon  the  sword-blade,  but  the  temper  of  its  cutting 
edge,  that  concerns  us.  An  unsanctioned  faith,  though  it 
were  the  most  charming  in  the  world,  will  fail  us  in  the  evil 
day.  Life  is  too  difficult  to  be  able  to  do  without  religion. 
To  be  a  man,  a  right  healthy  and  glad  man,  is  a  noble 
thought;  but  without  the  sanctions  of  religion  none  but  a 
Tery  few  have  ever  persisted  iu  even  tryii^  to  be  it.  Mr. 
Kidd  may  be  taken  as  a  sufficiently  unbiassed  judge,  and 
he  tells  us  unhesitatingly  that  the  race  is  growing  and  must 
continue  to  grow  steadily  more  and  more  religious. 

Betuming  to  the  main  question,  it  is  necessary  here  to 
remember  the  distinction  between  religion  and  theology. 
Theology  is  the  science  of  which  religion  is  the  correspond- 
ing art  Stevenson's  faith,  if  it  be  a  religious  faith,  appears 
to  wear  the  aspect  of  an  art  without  a  science.  He  offers  us 
no  system  of  new  doctrines  that  can  be  set  up  in  contrast 
with  the  old :  his  faith  will  fit  into  almost  any  theological 
system.  In  this  sense  it  is  really  not  a  new  faith  at  all, 
but  only  a  fresh  way  of  using  the  old;  bringing  but  a 
change  of  emphasis  among  the  various  parts,  and  a  new 
naturalness  and  nearness  to  the  human  facts. 

Yet  while  this  is  true,  it  is  true  also  that  a  faith  like  his 
is  bound  to  react  upon  the  theological  position  of  those  who 
hold  it.    If  a  man  has  tl  ither  harshly  or  frivolously 

387 


fn 


if 


.1 


i  si'l 


Hi 


i-^mmmmami 


mm    FAITH    OF    R.    L.   STIYBMSON 

<rf  Ood,  Ihia  will  MOW*  for  him  mi  MtinutU  both  fiatr  tad 
moN  ttudud.  The  ohMMter  of  Ood  h«a  suffond  griovooily 
al  Um  handt  of  mwbid  pioty;  thoM  whoM  idwl  is  hoalth 
roaj  find  a  tmer  conoApt'on  of  Him  upon  Iom  dreary  torms. 
Farther,  there  is  nothing  more  likely  to  lead  men  back  to  a 
reaeonable  faith,  and  to  itrengthen  faith  where  it  ia  weak, 
than  laoh  a  meeaage,  in  an  age  of  looeened  oreeda  and 
ragne,  unfocoseed  doubt.  One  oauae  of  the  preeent  decline 
trcta  old  beliera  ia  a  apiritual  debility,  a  lack  of  the  power 
to  take  energetio  hold  on  beliefe,  even  when  the  reaaon  baa 
no  fault  to  find  with  them.  Nothing  oould  be  imagined  more 
likely  to  counteract  that  nenreleaa  condition  than  ao 
energetic  attitude  to  human  life.  Those  who  gladly  and 
enthuaiaatieally  lay  hold  on  life  are  the  likelieet  to  attain  to 
a  faith  which  deals  robuatly  with  that  which  liee  beyond 
Ufe. 

But,  when  we  come  to  the  task  of  finding  for  the  faith 
of  Stevenson  a  place  among  the  various  forms  of  religious 
belief,  a  new  queetion  arises.  This  spirit  which  we  are 
discussing  may  be  called  the  Oospel  of  Health.  But  that 
is  a  claim  which  every  phase  and  sect  of  religion  makes. 
To  revert  again  to  e^mology,  the  watchword  of  all 
religions  is  holiness.  But  holiness,  heiligheit,  ia  the  aaine 
word  as  wholeness,  health,  heil.  Even  the  most  austere 
asceticism  believes  itself  to  be  healthy,  and  declares  that  it 
is  compelled  to  dwell  in  its  frozen  climate  Ijecause  there 
alone  can  it  find  air  bracing  enough.  The  chief  queation 
between  rival  ayatema  of  religion  liea  in  the  difference 
between  their  viewa  of  what  health  or  holineaa  means. 
What,  then,  shall  we  say  about  Stevenson's  conception  of 
health  ?  How  far,  in  particular,  can  it  be  called  a  Christian 
conception  ? 

Christianity  has  been  claimed  by  many  thinkers  with 
widely  different  points  of  view;  and  the  only  error  that  many 
388 


S. 


STBTINSON    AND    HI8    TIMI8 

of  thtM  olAiiBMU  lwT«  uMdt  is  to  insUt  tbftt  (h«y  aIom  can 
eltim  it  ChritUuiity  U  a  largtr  and  nioro  comprebeiuivo 
rtUgioo  thui  any  of  our  litUa  ayttaiM ;  it  ia  tha  mono- 
poly of  nona  of  than.  Like  the  bttman  apirit  itaelf,  it  ia 
'wider  than  tha  moat  prioelaia  of  tha  foroea  whieh  beai 
it  onwiurd.'  It  would  be  abaurd,  for  inatanoe,  to  identify  it 
either  with  Hebraiam  or  with  Helleniam.  It  ia  neither 
beeaoM  it  ia  both.  It  ia  jnat  ChriaUanity,  tha  interpreU- 
tion  of  all  the  rariona  mooda  and  faotora  in  human  life. 

Aa  an   exhauatiTe,  or   eran  an  adequate  account   of 
Chriatianity,  the  faith  of  Bobert  Louia  SteYenaon  ia  very 
far  from  complete;  but  that  ia  not  to  aay  that  it  may  not 
have  an  immenae  value  aa  the  ezpoaition  of  a  true  aapeot  of 
Chriatianity  to  ita  generation.    For  each  particular  age  there 
ia  one  eet  of  Chriatian  thoughta  and  priudplea  which  ia 
more  valuable  than  any  othc-.     It  ia  by  aucceaaive  ohangea 
of  emphaaia  that  Chriatianity  baa  proved  iUelf  a  religion 
adequate  for  the  need*  of  the  world,  beoauae  capable  of  inter- 
preting life  and  revealing  God  to  man  iu  all  agea.    The  need 
of  many  in  the  preaent  time  ia  for  a  goape^  >f  health  and  glad 
encouragement,  ezpreaaed  in  terma  raiuer  of  human  life 
than  of  metaphyaical  diaeuaaion ;  and  once  more  Chriatianity 
ia  found  adequate  to  the  demand.    Christ  aaid  long  ago  all 
that  ia  valuable  in  the  moat  recent  thought    The  guiding 
principlea  of  Hia  lii  ■  were  atrenuouaneaa  and  compaaaion. 
Many  of  Hia  moot  familiar  aayinga  were  worda  of  courageoua 
hope   and    cheerful   encouragement     The  great  taak  of 
happineaa  waa  never  preached  so  forcibly  aa  when  He 
summed  up  Hia  beatitudea  in  words  apoken  in  expr  sa 
defiance  of  alauder  and  peraecution,  'Kejoice  and  be  ex- 
ceeding glad.'    The  moat  characteristic  word  of  Chriat  waa 
'My  joy' — a  word  apoken  in  the  midat  of  overwhelming 
calamities.    So  far,  then.  Stevenaon'a  goapel  amounta  simply 
to  thia:  that  he  took  aerioualy,  what  so  few  of  us  take 

T  289 


V 


iL 


THE    FAITH    OF    B.    L.    STEYBNSON 


Mrioosly,  Jesos  Christ's  oomoiand  tlutt  His  disciples  should 
rejoice. 

It  is  true  that  Christ  also  preached  self-denial,  and  laid 
vehement  emphasis  on  the  necessity  for  cross-bearing. 
It  is  true  also  that  behind  all  Christianity  there  stands  the 
Cross  of  Christ — ^variously  understood,  always  mysterious, 
and  yet  always  commanding.  Those  are  happy  who  have 
understood  the  meaning  of  the  Cross  of  Christ  suflSciently  to 
formulate  to  themselves  its  doctrine.  But  the  healing  and 
life-giving  shadow  of  that  Cross  falls  on  others  who  cannot 
do  this.  As  to  the  cross-bearing  of  the  disciples,  He  never 
spoke  of  that  as  an  end  in  itself,  but  only  as  a  means 
towards  the  real  ends  of  human  life — a  means  rendered 
necessary  by  the  perverse  conditions  of  man's  present  state. 
Self-denial  comes  as  a  duty  upon  all  men.  But  beyond  it 
lies  the  region  of  positive  virtue,  and  health  and  gladness, 
for  the  sake  of  which  it  comes. 

All  this  Stevenson's  faith  implies,  and  indeed  he  has 
stated  much  of  it  in  explicit  terms.  His  faith  was  not  for 
himself  alone,  and  the  phases  of  Christianity  which  it  has 
asserted  are  peculiarly  suited  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  many 
in  the  present  time.  Health  and  gladness,  arising  out  of 
energetic  and  compassionate  life,  are  essentially  Christian 
virtues.  The  late  Professor  Seeley,  in  a  brilliant  and 
famous  passage,  has  contrasted  the  New  Athens  with  the 
New  Jerusalem.  He  has  confessed,  as  we  all  must  do,  that 
it  is  better  to  be  a  citizen  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former. 
But  the  question  presses  for  answer,  Are  these  two  separate 
oijties  after  all  ?  Are  they  not  but  two  different  names  for 
the  ultimate  City  of  God,  that  lieth  foursquare,  with  gates 
on  the  west  as  well  as  on  the  east  7  So  long  as  the  glory  of 
GUxl  doth  lighten  it,  and  there  entereth  into  it  nothing  that 
defileth,  it  matters  not  much  for  the  name  whereby  it  is 
called. 
290 


^ 


STEVENSON    AND    HIS    TIMES 

Meanwhile,  as  to  the  ideab  we  have  been  considering  as 
characteristic  not  only  of  Stevenson's  faith,  but  of  that  of 
many  other  thinking  men  and  women,  they  are  the  ideals 
which  the  wheel  of  life  has  brought  uppermost  for  the  hour 
in  which  we  are  appointed  to  live.  Doubtless  their  time 
also  will  one  day  be  past,  and  some  new  Hebraism — who 
can  tell?— will  have  come  instead  of  them.  So  much  at 
least  may  be  said  for  them,  that  they  have  achieved  a  more 
harmonious  balance  of  the  various  elements  of  life  than 
most  of  the  Hellenisms  of  the  past,  and  so,  perhaps,  have 
advanced  a  few  steps  nearer  to  the  final  truth.  But,  in  the 
meantime,  they  are  here — ^to  some  men  and  women  the 
clearest  light  of  Ood  that  they  can  see.  The  task  of  life  for 
each  of  us  is  to  walk  faithfully  through  the  hours  of  our 
day  by  that  day's  light  And  it  is  thus  that  we  must 
estimate  the  Faith  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson— to  whom 
was  given  a  most  brilliant  vision  of  a  certain  stretch  of 
sunlit  earth,  and  who  travelled  in  that  light  joyously  to 
the  end. 


i  . 


m 


GENERAL    INDEX 


I- 

! 

!    I 
;    I 


GENERAL   INDEX 


Aomro,  80,  43,  4S,  44,  Sll,  253. 

AddiMB,  JoMph,  07. 

AgwMtieiam,  SM. 

Amtriea,  06,  66. 

AncMton.  88,  88,  61  ff..  70,  ISl,  192, 

271. 
Angdioo,  Fm,  146. 
Aiifalo,  Miobael,  170. 
AatiBomiM,  2l 
AnUthMi*,  47. 
AppncbtioB,  186  ff, 
Ara«dd,  Mattkew,  4,  19,  64,  112,  118, 

909, 276,  289. 
Art,  17,  49, 170, 174,  260. 
AtlMiam,  1,  284. 

BADNua,  146  r. 

B«ildon,  ProfaMor  H.  Bellyse,  66. 

Balfour,  Onriiara[Lifaof  R.  L.  Stevenson, 
references  and  qnoUtiou],  6,  16,  30, 
83,  62,  68,  64,  61,  62,  OS,  96, 100, 1  4, 
118, 126, 167,  168,  169. 170, 171,  ' 
202, 209,  219,  246,  269. 

Bwrie,  J.  X.,  86,  80, 66,  80  :. 

Beauty,  187  r.,  147  f. 

Bewity  and  Terror,  8,  6, 189, 160. 

Bible,  the.  16,  70,  76,  87  ff.,  i02,  164, 
176, 180  f.,  204,  212,  237. 

BilUngi,  Antiqnitiee  of  Scotland,  67. 

Body,  82  f. 

Bohemia,  98. 

Booki,  64  ff. 

BritUi  character,  270. 

BrontSR,  the,  274. 

Browning,  Bobert,  66  f.,  90,  166,  206, 
212,  864,  272,  276, 284. 

Banyan,  John.  81  ft,  188,  272. 

^Mu,,  Robert,  144, 147,  286,  288,  %8. 

Butcher,  Professor  280. 

3yron,  Lord,  27  . 


OALVumif,  69, 102, 161, 216, 282. 

CaadUs,  120  f.,  244. 

Cariyla,  Thomas,  4,  61,  66,  179.  226, 

848,  848.  871,  278, 274,  976,  277. 
Catechism,  70,  266. 
CathoUdty,  186  f. 
Chuige,  107  f. 
Character,  6,  8. 
Chancer,  OeoArey,  278. 
Chesterton,  O.K.,  268. 
Childhood,  16,  26,  88, 41, 47, 61  ff.,  81  f., 

189, 181, 164. 168, 210. 247  ff. 
Christ,  Jesus,  10,  88  ff.,  110, 178  f.   181, 

187,  209,  211  f.,  284,  289  f.,  263,  289  f. 
Christianity,  62, 167, 228  ft 
Church,  1, 12. 14, 102. 
Collins,  ChurtoD,  276. 
Colour,  112, 118  ff. 
Colvin,  Professor  Sidney,  20,  30,  142. 

202,  257,  264. 
Commerce,  97  f. 
Compassion,  206. 
Complex  character,  1  f.,  196. 
Contentment,  268  f. 
Conventionality,  96  ff. 
Cooper,  Fenimore,  132. 
Comford,  L.  Cope,  125. 
Courage,  177,  218  ft 
Covenanters,  69  ff. 
Creed,  4. 
Crisis,  14. 

Citxskett,  8.  R.,  6,  78,  78. 
Cross,  the,  290. 

Cunningham,  Alison,  61,  70, 81  f.,  87. 
Cynicism,  31,  232  f. 

Dahti,  82, 117,  284,  273. 
Daricness,  121  f. 
Darwinianism,  286. 
Death,  184  f. 

296 


'IM 


INDEX 


Dafloitioii,  a. 

DmOnj.  182, 177,  214  ff. 

OetaU.  11«  t 

DavU-jriotuTM,  146. 

Difflealtiea,  222  f. 

Dimali,  88. 

Dogmt,  8f.,286. 

Double   life  (cf.  Dr.  Jek^  and  Mr. 

Bydt),  48, 161,  220  ff. 
DnMriBg,  112. 
I>ruiiina,  82. 
I>nuua,18aff. 

OnmM,  A.,  12, 66, 187,  288. 
DnnW,  W.,  272. 

BAsnsTMna,  226  ff. 

Miabnrgh,  22,  24  f.  81,  45,  67,  76,  »6, 

»,  112, 126, 164. 
Edinburgh  Dayi  (Robert  LottU  Stevm- 

*»'*),  by  Mifs  E.  Blantyie  Simpeon 

(references  and  qaoUtione),  26.  88 

142, 197,  208,  208. 
IlgoUm,  25  ff.,  40. 
Eighteenth  century,  67,  271,  276. 
Eliot,  Oeoige,  274. 
Emereon,  R.  W.,  65,  268. 
Emotions,  Jamei'  theory  of,  262. 
Expression,  174. 
Bye-mindedness,  64. 

Facial  expression,  246,  276,  276,  280. 

Failure,  162  f.,  220,  287. 

Fairness,  191  f. 

Faith,  8, 14, 148  ff.,  164,  180,  261  f.,  266, 

Fatalism,  (/.  Destiny. 

Fathers,  94  f. 

Fault-flnding,  197. 

Fergusson,  Bobert,  3. 

Fleeming  Jenkin,  14,  25,  37,  146,  202, 

241,  246. 
Fotheringham,  James,  284. 
Freethinkers,  1. 
French,  character,  etc.,  10,  66. 161.  226 

230,270.  ' 

Friends,  18, 16,  202  ff. 
Future,  234  t. 


«od,  1,  6  ff.,  16,  149  f.,  181,  22S,  236 
266ff..271,284,286,S(88.   "^"^ 
Oo«the,  146. 
Oo*e,  Edmund,  22,  80,  246. 

HAPnnas,  214,  241  ff. 

duty  of,  241,  260. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  274,  276. 

Health,  29,  218  ff.,  282,  956,  276  ff.. 

288  ff.,  288. 
Hearing,  112  f. 
Hebraism,  188,  280,  282,  269  ff.,  274. 

276. 

HeUenism,  188,  ISO,  882,  269  ff.,  274. 

Henley,  W.  B.,  17,  87,  69. 

Herakles,  206,  812,  272. 

Heredity,  88, 62,  881. 

History,  271. 

Holineas,  225,  288. 

Home,  182  f. 

Honesty,  222  f. 

Hope,  261  f. 

Hugo,  Victor,  20,  66. 

Humour,  226, 267. 

Hypocrisy,  10. 


Oaiitt,  267. 
Garden,  138. 

Geographicid  instinct,  165. 
Germany,  270. 
Ghastly,  the,  184  ff. 

296 


IBSIR,  88. 

Ideals,  232  f. 

Idleness,  171  f. 

ninesa,  6,  98,  168,  176  f ,  214,  219. 

Illustrations,  84  f.,  189. 

IiM«inaUon,  128  f ,  203. 

Immediacy,  164  ff. 

ImmorUlity,  168  f. 

Inhuman  element,  6,  33. 

Interest  in  self,  18,  26  f. 

Irresponsibility,  88. 

Ixion,  264. 

Jaioes,  Professor  W.,  247,  262.  277  f 

281,284. 
James,  St.,  180. 
John,  St.,  204. 
Joubert,  7. 
Joyousness,  260,  289. 
Judgments  of  others,  188. 


Kant,  100. 
KeaU,  273. 
Kidd,  B.,  287. 
Kindness,  208. 
KInglake,  106. 


INDBX 


KipliDf,  BudTard,  6,  47. 
Knox,  John,  79. 

I'AMPt,  22, 121  f. 

LMgUnd,  W.,  278. 

Uw,  itad7  of,  94. 

I<*pm,  7. 

Uvity,  268  r. 

Lifht,  120  f. 

U^thooie,  128, 209. 

UUnry  work,  40, 174  f.,  266. 

'Urt  while  you  lire,"  171. 

Uriag  in  one's  own  timet,  268  S, 

Lore,  202  O. 

Labbock,  Sir  John  (Lord  AvebnryX  277. 

M'Chitki,  R  M.,  70,  87, 102. 

MeoDonald,  George,  166. 

Maeterlinck,  Manrice,  6. 

Men,  study  of,  26,  284  IT. 

Manlinesa,  213  f. 

Mepi,  86, 166. 

MMion,  Profeeeor  David,  141,  224. 

Memory,  128  f. 

Meredith.  Oewrge,  87.  66, 168,  217. 

Milton,  John.  146,  224. 

Migrione  and  Minionariea,  1, 196, 197  ff. 

Molokai,  7. 

Montaigne,  Michel  de,  18,  66,  161,  191. 

Moonlight,  124. 

Moral  eamestneas,  226  ff. 

laxity,  280  f, 

tragedy,  146. 

Morality,  100, 104, 110, 187. 
Morbidnese,  2S  f. 
Music,  69,  111. 
MystMy,  3. 

NAMsa,  194. 

Nature,  6, 66,  82, 125  ft,  189  f.,  216. 

Negative  virtues,  178,  228. 

NicoU,  W.  R.,  219. 

Nineteenth  century,  278  f. 

Novelist,  22. 

Nurses,  194. 

Ou>age,  17. 

Optimism,  8,  248,  260  ft 
Opulence  of  the  world,  247. 
OriginaUty,  64, 106  ff. 

Paoit,  Bishop,  278. 
Parents,  102,  213. 
Past,  the,  284  f. 


PlaUr,  Walter,  2?  48. 

Paul,8t.,28,Wa,177,aa0f. 

Pann,  Wllliani,80f: 

Pwnonality,  4.  t. 

Panonifloation,  181. 

Paeaimism,  8,  162  f.,  260,  260,  261, 268, 

276,286. 
PhilUpa,  Stephen,  276. 
Philosophy,  278. 
PUgrim.'*  I'rogrt$$,  81  f.,  188. 
PlMrare.  love  of,  280,  282  f. 
PoUtioa,  107,  210. 
FOpnlwity,  80,  279. 
Potitive  virtue,  178,  228. 
Pnctical,  the,  162. 
Preaching,  48  ft 
Pretending,  88. 
Profession,  94. 
Progress,  182. 
Providence,  264. 
Paychology,  26,  284  ft 
Pnrity,  288 1. 

Raoinr,  19. 

Realiam,  140. 

Recurrences,  19  f. 

Religion,  1  f.,  »,  42,  49,  102,  285  ft 

Renan,  E.,  89. 

Repentance,  40,  238. 

RespactabUity,  1,  96. 

Revelation,  284. 

Revolt,  16,  93  f. 

Reward,  168  f.,  227. 

Riobter,  J.  P.,  61. 

Robertson,  P.  W.,  12. 

Romance,  19. 

Rossetti,  D.  G.,  61. 


Saintb-Bkuvb,  66. 

Salvini,  26,  37. 

Samoa,  7,  9, 11, 12,  39,  46,  68, 192,  198, 

206,  208,  210  f.,  218,  264. 
Sanity,  281. 

Scenery,  82, 126  ft.,  129. 
Scotland,  1,  66  f.,  129,  136, 166, 192, 220. 
Scott,  Sir  W.,  29,  65,  67  ft,  177,  219. 

284,273. 
Scottish   character,    etc.,    44,    62,  161, 

227,  230,  282. 
Sea,  the,  127,  251. 
Sects,  1,  3. 

Seeiey,  Professor,  290. 
Self-denial,  290. 

297 


J   ' 


1 1 

I  i 


INDIX 


a«lf-MnUaa,ni. 

8«WMdtlMMMMU,nf. 

awHmwihilltm, ». 

BkalM^MNt  W.,  «7, 48,  IM,  278. 

8kdltr,P.B..a7S. 

II1.8MI 

HMMttjr,  10^  SC 

8(ml,ndMaf;81,2r. 

8iMtk8Ma,  1.  %  17,  SO.  88, 17,  88,  90, 

?!l  J*iu*^**^  ^  **^  *"»  ^•»- 

IW  t,  aM,  800. 
flpwlriliiii  IM. 

SpMtMvbr,  80, 114 1,  laO  ff.,  185. 
8pMtnl,l»S. 

Spirit  of  thalgt,  808  £.370. 
8i>lritu]lt7,Sf.,a8Sf. 
Star,  tilt.  96, 88  f.,  78. 
Stan,  134. 
Stamuon,  Mn.  B.  L.,  10,  880. 

Mm.  T..  88, 68, 81  f.,  848, 866. 

Bolwrt,88,68f..360. 

ThoBM,  88.  88,  08  ft,  104. 

Stoma,  137,  360  f. 

Strm|th,81S. 

StrainoiinMas,  314. 

8tiidntlUi,90. 

8tyl«,  40, 40 1.,  74, 11«,  130,  176, 881. 

8nt(i«tWty,18ft,180. 

Sunday,  1. 18. 101, 110. 

Sunday-teliool,  18. 

Saalight,  134. 

8]nnp«th7, 185  ft 

TnTOTWR,  A.,  867. 


Tmntt  (1/.  BHMtjr  nd  IWmr).  881. 
1WMlMn]r.W.M.,60kS74. 
rmatn,  tkMtrietf  {^.  magt,  tht). 
ThMlofjr,  804, 887. 
TkoHBaa.  V    MA. 

nHmn.08,100,107,890. 
Toji,68ft 
Tami,  88, 161  ft 
TkMMaM,180£ 
T»itb,  43. 

Uunun  ftMti,  308  £.  880  f. 
UabcdlM,  08, 100, 160. 
UtffltMiuInn,  341. 

VAnnu.  7,  13,  88,  188,  136.  130,  178, 

100,306. 
VUlM,  184. 
yitga,  117. 
Virtus,  178, 338. 
VM<m,113ft 
Vltdhy,  171  ft 

Wauib,  p.,  00  ft 

WaOdaff.  157  f. 

Wmndmiitt  WHU*,  31. 

War,  00b  1».  107  f. 

Watson,  W.,  375. 

Weak  brothwr,  th«,  318. 

Whitman,  Walt,  06.  88. 187, 100,  281. 

Words,  40  ft,  130. 

Wordsworth,  W.,  82. 

Worlt,  40. 171  ft,  174. 

Youth,  171. 

ZnTonR  ((/.  Spirit  of  ths  Ags). 


298 


.m. 


1».  178, 


INDEX  TO  REFERENCES  AND  QUOTATIONS 
FROM  STEVENSON'S  WRITINGS 


16,281. 


I     ! 


I 


'4 


INDEX  TO  REFERENCES  AND  QUOTATIONS 
FROM  STEVENSON'S  WRITINGS 


;  i 


Admiral  Qmntu,  87, 103, 191. 
Admlrala,  Th«  En^tah.  4, 161, 1S8. 
Am  THpkz,  165, 171. 

Ballam,  82,  88.  08, 117,  124, 188,  ISO. 

281. 
Bmh  AuUn,  40, 118. 
HMk  Amw,  The,  19,   124,  184,  228, 

229.248. 

CATmoM.  S.  16,  26,  28, 186. 

ChUd't  Oudcn  of  VenM,  A,  28, 26,  27, 

84,  S«,  87. 188,  IH,  177,  226.  244,  2C1. 
Chlld'i  PUy,  41,  42.  62, 64, 181. 
Chiistmu  SermoD,  A,  44,  40,  120,  162. 

163,  178,  187,  188,  283,  286,  887. 288, 

242,  244.  246,  249. 
CnblMd  Age  ud  Youth.  96,  106,  171, 

218.286. 

DAitm,  Father.  An  Open  Letter.  198, 

197. 
Dttccn  BrocUe,  68.  69.  87, 121, 146, 166, 

169,221. 
Dreams,  A  Chaptw  on,  182. 188. 186. 

Ebb  Tmi,  The,  146, 176. 

Bdlnbttigh,  Pietnreeque  Notea  on,  5,  46, 

68,  70.  70,  84,  95,  96,  186,  246. 
Sa  Dorwlo,  161, 176. 
Emye,  19,  22,  26,  28,  88. 

Fablh.  1,  8,  44,  46,  84,  108,  162, 166. 

216. 
FamUy  of  Engiaeen,  A,  28,  26,  62,  68, 

70,  126. 186, 179,  192,  228,  266. 


Fleeming  Jcnkia,  Memoir  of,  14, 28, 145, 

197.  ?36.  341,  246. 
FeataiaeblMtt,  82,  88.  244. 
FootnoU  to  Hietorjr.  A,  7, 197, 198. 

OiiAT  NOBTB  BOAD,  The,  122, 128, 169, 
216,  229, 289. 

Hbatbircat,  71. 72,  78, 74. 118. 

louRa,  An  Apology  for,  84,  114,  115, 

173.  244. 
lalAod  Voyage,  An,  8. 46,  99, 181,  189. 

176, 188,  282.  288, 288.  263,  354.  266. 
Inland  Voyage,  An  (BpUogna  to),  168. 
Island  Nighta'  EntertabunenU,  58,  117, 

132, 146, 196,  900, 211,  229. 

JuTLL  Aim  Htsi  (Strange  Case  of  Dr. 

JekyU  and  Mr.  Hyde),  17,  69,  182, 186, 

146,  161,  176,  220,  221,  232. 
John  Nieolaon,  The  MissdTentnree  of,  22, 

32,  96, 100. 102. 113, 117, 128,  126. 
Jn»eiiUia,  87,  64,  72,  98,  102,  108, 112. 

119. 186. 144.  146, 156.  186,  194.  196, 

197. 

LAMTnuf-BBABiBa,  The,  123,  169,  247, 

248.280. 
Lay  Moral*,  36.  27,  31.  46,  89,  90,  97, 

100,  109,  118,  143, 169, 178, 179, 188, 

222,  328,  327,  34a 
Letter  to  a  Yonng  Gentleman,  etc.,  198, 

260. 
Letters  from  Samoa,  60,  122.  129,  130, 

182.264. 

301 


^ 


IMDIX 


UMm  to  Fbitfly  u4  nriw4t,  7, 10^  It. 

i^N.  N,  1^  100.  lor.  114.  ittt  m, 

W,l«.17Mn,  17i,17l,W,W0, 

•a,»7,»$,ia$,3io,m,m. 

Maoaiu,  «r,  41. 
l■arkk•ia^  17, 310, ». 

"Sf",!*?!?^^  Tfc..  a«, «,  10. 40, 

M.  100,  11^  100,  114.  141,  14riH 

an,  300,340,  370.         -^"— -^ 

Mm  Md  Boolu,  FvBilkr  StadtM  <rf,  00, 

70,  04,  00.  07,  M,  107. 144, 147.  160. 

m,  176.  IM,  W,  100,  IDS.  330, 303. 

Mifty'  Mm.  IH  03.  30^  47,  74, 130. 100, 
14S  100^  307. 

*^^Slf^.  *"""•  "•  "•  "•  "'• 
160, 103, 300. 

Olaiu,  00. 06. 130, 136, 103. 316. 
Ordmd  Bonth,  0, 66, 130,  SCO. 

PAifi  Pim,  100. 

PUjri,  07,  40,  87. 104. 

iVwmi,  10,  as.  36.  28.  96. 

P»7tft.  12. 18.  89,  4<^  41.  43.  92,  146. 
170. 180,  386.  349. 267,  366. 

PicMBUUon  Volvm*  (Edinbui(h  Edi- 
tion), 14.  96.  101.  124,  128,  188.  166, 
167. 196,  318,  286. 

PrlBc*  Otto,  19. 126, 187. 

PnlvU  rt  Umbru.  178.  262,  268. 

Road.  Baiun  or  tu,  82.  88.  86,  86, 


114. 111^  130^  100b  ion  110^  187,  100^ 
180,170,300^318^311. 

<«oUMr— ,07,00, 0MO4. 


•r.  Im,  00, 40, 107. 166, 311 
tafmde  S^MMtn.  Tka,  80,  131,  136, 

■oiWi  of  IteTtl,  0, 0,  10.  31,  136,  138. 

140, 160, 100, 170, 100,  300b  SaO,  Ml, 

300. 
8o«tkSMi,Iatko,30bai,  00,  110,  117, 

114,  lOMOO.  17^  10^  301. 340. 
8tar7oramTk«,00. 

TMimouu.  lumm  op  Bnia,  177. 

Tkn«BJaaat,71100. 

THftU  with  k  DoBlur.  10,  89.  46,  46, 

34,  OS,  107,  \<»,  131,  100.  101.  188. 

180,100,306,361. 
XVmhui  bUad,  31.  66,  130,  131,  100, 

1(6,316. 
TimMn  of  FrtaeUid,  Tho.  87,  60. 180. 

181, 148.  331. 

Unuwooiw.  8.  00.  70,  03,  110.  138. 
ISO.  107. 188. 148,  103,  169,  176,  180, 
181, 188. 189, 197.  304,  300,  310,  285, 
344.378. 

/.ULUu  Lrtbu,  6,  68,  60,  89.  92,  07. 
186. 186, 143, 160, 174,  176,  188.  193, 
194. 199,  301, 218.  388,  349.  364. 

Viigiaibiu  PnwitqM.  43,  46,  68,  168, 
227,228,288,261. 

Wauuxo  Tonia,  114, 168. 

Wolr  cf  HomirtOB,  38.  69. 94. 114, 117, 

118, 139, 189, 142,  148,  170.  179,  187, 

181. 194,  380, 866. 
WiU  o-  tho  Mill,  166, 167, 161, 164. 
Wwckcr.  Tho,  22,  88,  64,  69,  127,  180. 

184, 148, 166, 160.  106, 167,  209,  862. 
Wrong  Boz,  Tho,  48,  49, 140, 176. 


,w, 

IM. 

,1M. 

I 

.  m. 

i». 

9M.M1. 
\\9,  117, 


161,  18S, 

lai,  lao, 

7, »,  180. 


118,  138. 
176,  180, 
81«,  28S, 

».  92.  97. 
188,  m, 
W4. 
6»,  1«3, 


114, 117, 
179,  187. 

184. 

127,  130. 
900,252. 
16. 


